Invisible - Michael/Sara (1/1)
Title: Invisible (1/1)
Fandom: Prison Break
Characters: Michael Scofield, Sara Tancredi, Lincoln Burrows
Pairing: Michael/Sara
Rating: PG-15
Length: 3,493 words
Summary: Sometimes blending into the crowd requires drastic measures.
Author's Note: Another post-Scylla fic that my little OCD soul demanded I write. I think we all know that certain tattoo-related things are not physically possible, but it's canon now and therefore fair game for ficcing and because I can never resist the urge to try and explain the unexplainable. *g*
~*~
The harsh lighting in the female bathroom in Don Self's building in Chicago is unforgiving, to say the least, and yet Sara can’t stop herself from turning her back to the large mirror, pulling up her shirt and peering over her shoulder. She hasn’t counted the scars yet, and she suddenly wonders if Michael did.
Yanking down her shirt, she washes her hands and face, then tidies her hair as best she can without a hairbrush. Don had promised to have fresh clothing and a few toiletries brought to them before the day is over, much to her relief. She feels as though she’s been wearing these clothes for a week instead of a day and a half, and the last time she felt this way is not a time she wants to relive.
Knowing she’s as freshened up as she’s going to get, she goes in search of Michael. They're supposedly being transfered to another location, somewhere to spend the night before flying to LA in the morning, but she's still fuzzy on the details. She finds him in the conference room, deep in conversation with his brother. She promptly backpedals, wanting to give them their privacy, but it’s too late. Lincoln beckons her into the room, then turns back to his brother. “Have you told her?”
A faintly trapped expression dances across Michael’s face, and Sara’s heart sinks. What now? “Not yet, no,” he says calmly, giving his brother a look that speaks volumes.
Gripping the back of Michael’s chair, she looks from one man to the other. “What’s going on?”
They both open their mouths to answer her, but Lincoln is faster. “He’s going to let some quack butcher him.”
“What?”
Michael gives his brother another hard glance, then turns to face her. “The tattoos have to go.”
She blinks. “Okay.” She looks at him, then at Lincoln’s quietly furious expression, and the vague conversation suddenly makes sense. “What, you mean now?”
“Yes.” His chair shifts beneath her hand as he gets to his feet. Shoving his hands in his pockets, he walks to the closest window, leaving her and Lincoln staring after him. “There’s a plastic surgeon here in Chicago who specialises in accelerated removal techniques.” He turns to look at her. “They’re taking me to him in an hour’s time. By the time I leave, the tattoos will be gone.”
It takes her a few seconds to realise she’s shaking her head. “Michael -” Her head has instantly filled with thoughts of anaphylactic shock and the toxins produced by the degradation of tattoo ink, and it’s suddenly all too easy to understand Lincoln’s dour expression. “Do you have any idea of the risks involved in performing that drastic a procedure?”
Her voice wavers on the last word, and the stubborn set of his jaw relaxes. “According to Self, this guy’s got a spotless track record.”
Lincoln rubs his hand over his shaved head, an agitated rasp of skin against bristled hair. “You don’t have to do this, man.”
“Yes, I do.” Tugging up his sleeves one by one, Michael holds out his arms to them both, his palms turned upwards as if in supplication. “As long as I have these tattoos, all the fake IDs and passports in the world aren’t going to make me invisible.” He looks at his brother, and his face softens. “They existed only to save you from the electric chair.” He smiles. “Mission accomplished, wouldn’t you say?”
Lincoln looks momentarily lost for words, then shakes his head again. “But there’s gonna be scarring, right?”
"Yes." Michael’s gaze locks with hers, the warmth in his eyes as palpable as the remembered touch of his fingertips on her marred skin. “But I can live with those.”
~*~
It’s not the longest ten hours of her life, but it might just be a close second. She drinks bad coffee and reads outdated magazines and considers demanding to be allowed into the treatment room at least once an hour. Finally, just after two a.m., the door to the waiting room opens and she’s looking at their newly self-appointed minder. “He’s all done.”
Looking past him, she’s on her feet before her brain can realise her legs are tingling with pins and needles. Michael is in the anteroom next door, glassy-eyed with pain as two nurses gingerly deposit him into an armchair. A sudden burst of fury rushes up from somewhere deep in Sara’s chest, and she directs it squarely at the most convenient target. “He looks as though he’s about to pass out.”
Their FBI handler meets her accusing stare with a casual shrug. “What can I say? He refused every sedative we offered him.” He beckons to her to come closer, as if granting her permission to visit the patient. “If it makes you feel better, he only threw up once.”
Still two steps away from the door, she swears under her breath - she has no idea if she’s angry with Michael or the FBI or the plastic surgeon wielding the laser, but she’s certainly angry with someone - then looks him in the eye. “Do we have a takeout supply of those painkillers?”
“No.”
“Could we get some, please?”
He looks as though he’s tempted to argue with her - although exactly why he would, she doesn’t know - then he nods. “Uh, sure.”
When she steps into the small recovery room, Michael’s smile is a pale imitation of its usual self. “Hey.”
His jacket is lying across his lap, the front of his t-shirt clearly showing the added bulk of the bandages she knows are covering his raw skin. Skimming her fingertips along the whisker-roughened curve of his jaw, she gently cups the back of his head as she bends down to kiss him. “And I thought I was a glutton for punishment.”
She feels his sigh against her lips, and despite the circumstances, a quiver of longing shivers through her belly. Their rushed lovemaking - God, was that only two days ago? - has done absolutely nothing to take the edge off her craving for him. If anything, it’s only made it worse. “You know me,” he murmurs wearily. “Gotta keep testing my limits.”
“Well, take it from me, this particular experiment is over.” She wants very much to gather him into her arms, but she doesn’t want to make him feel any more uncomfortable then she knows he already is. “You up for the ride back?”
He nods, splaying his hands wide on the armrests of the chair for support as he slowly gets to his feet. “I got a bad case of sunburn once, down in Baja.”
She slips her hand around his waist, careful to put her hand on his hip, below the demarcation line of his erstwhile ink work. “Fifty cent beers at happy hour?”
His smile doesn’t quite disguise the pain in his eyes. “That’s the place.” They walk slowly towards the door, his stride growing steadier with every step. “Anyway, I fell asleep on the beach one afternoon, woke up lobster-red and shed my skin for a week afterwards.”
The absurd thought pops into her head that he must have been there alone, otherwise there would have been someone to wake him. She’s not sure if the realisation pleases or saddens her. Perhaps a little of both. “And how does this compare?”
“Like I fell asleep in the sun for a week.”
“Ah.”
He clenches his jaw as he slowly climbs into the backseat of the SUV beside her, and she can’t helping thinking of all those extreme makeover reality shows she’d once watched with one eye as she’d laid on the couch reading. “Tell me honestly,” she murmurs as she helps him buckle his seatbelt. “On a scale of one to ten, how bad is it?”
He considers the question for a moment, his fingers fretfully plucking at the front of his t-shirt. “Five.”
She studies the gleam of sweat above his top lip, the way his hands are flexing on his thighs. “Liar.”
He tilts his head to look at her. “You know, I’m sure your bedside manner used to be a lot more charming.”
She reaches for his hand as the front doors of the SUV slam shut and the engine roars into life. “Gotta be cruel to be kind, Scofield,” she says, conscious of their audience, telling him something very different with her eyes. I love you.
His hand tightens around hers, hard enough to make her knuckles grow pale, and she knows he's heard her.
~*~
Their plane to LA doesn’t leave until nine o’clock that morning. Until then, they’ve been deposited in a secure wing of an administration building that doesn’t seem to be on the FBI’s official radar. Don had taken his leave of them around three a.m., saying they'd be safe under the watchful eye of his men, something Sara knows is meant to be reassuring but fills her with the compulsion to constantly look over her shoulder.
The majority of their motley group has fanned out, taking up residence in bunk beds randomly scattered through the disused offices, trying to get whatever sleep they can. As she glares at Michael over the top of her outstretched hand, she wishes she’d had the common sense to join them.
“Please take them.”
He looks at the painkillers in her palm, then shakes his head. “I’ll be okay.”
He’s lying on his back on a narrow camp bed, his arms ramrod straight at his sides, looking both exhausted and miserable. She grits her teeth in a vain attempt to stop herself from saying what she dearly wants to say, but she’s fighting a losing battle. “You don’t win extra points for being a fucking martyr, Michael.”
His eyes widen, making her belatedly realise she’s never sworn quite so thoroughly in front of him, then he grins. “I was right. Definitely not as charming as you used to be.”
She suddenly feels close to tears, a combination of the lateness of the hour, frustration and the warmth of his smile in the face of what he’s going through. “You need to sleep, and you won’t be able to sleep unless you take these.”
His smile falters, his gaze sliding away from hers. “I’ll be fine.”
“Oh, for the love of -” She turns to see Lincoln watching them from the doorway. Striding into the room, he holds his hand out for both the pills and the glass of water she’s holding. He turns from her to his brother, practically shoving the glass and the medication under his nose. “Just take the damned pills and get to sleep, okay?”
Michael’s gaze flicks from his brother’s face to hers, then he blows out a loud breath that sounds like a sigh of defeat. Sara rubs her hands up and down her arms, happy to let Lincoln help his brother sit up and take the painkillers. Once the glass is empty and the pills are gone, Michael sinks back onto the bunk, his eyes closed. “Thanks.”
She has no idea if he’s thanking her or Lincoln, but that doesn’t matter. What matters is that he’s admitted he’s not indestructible long enough to get some sleep. She glances at Lincoln, her heart twisting at his expression. Guilt is etched into every line on his face, his eyes dark with self-reproach. Taking the empty glass from him, she beckons to him to follow her from the room. Once outside in the hallway, she shuts the door behind them, not wanting Michael to hear them.
“He’s going to be very sore for a couple of weeks, but with the proper care, he’ll be perfectly fine.”
The tense set of Lincoln’s shoulders seems to relax, if only a little. “In that case, I’m glad he’s got you.”
She looks at him, sleep deprivation making her bold. “Are you?”
His eyes widen slightly, and she knows he’s deciphered the unspoken layers of the simple question. “Yeah. Yeah, I am.”
They exchange an awkward smile - so strange to think they were more at ease with each other when he was her patient on Death Row - then he jerks his head towards the closed door. “Try and get some sleep, okay?”
“You, too.”
Back in the small office she and Michael have managed to procure for themselves, she leans against the closed door and studies him, her throat tightening with the threat of tears. His once-white tank is dotted with blood, and her fingers itch to check beneath the bandages swathing his upper body. Kicking off her shoes, she flicks off the bright overhead light, waiting until her eyes adjust to the moonlight coming through the barred window. Once she has her bearings, she makes her way to the camp bed that’s been shoved up against Michael’s, peering sadly at the flat pillow and rough woollen blanket. Of all the ways she’d imagined they might spend their first night sleeping under the same roof, this was not one of them.
“Michael?”
“Hmmm?”
“I’m sorry I called you a martyr.” She’s whispering, but her voice sounds preternaturally loud in the quiet room. “You’re one of the bravest people I’ve ever known.”
In the darkness, she hears his bed creak as he moves, then she feels the touch of his hand, his fingertips skimming down the length of her arm. “That makes two of us, then.”
~*~
She’s stiff and sore when she wakes, and to add insult to injury, she’s alone in the room, the camp bed beside her empty. Stretching out her hand, she touches cool sheets and blankets, and realises Michael must have left his bed quite a while ago.
Hastily dressed in some of the clean clothes that had mercifully appeared in a plastic bag while they’d been at the plastic surgeon’s rooms, she goes in search of him. If he’s done anything ridiculous like try to remove those bandages himself, she vows silently, she isn’t going to be responsible for her actions.
A quick word with Brad leads her to the men’s washroom, where she relies on a hasty knock on the door to make sure she’s not about to walk in on anyone she shouldn’t. “Michael? Are you okay?”
“Kind of.”
He sounds much more like himself than he had last night, but she still enters the room with a faint sense of dread, worried about what she might find. To her relief, he’s standing in front of the mirrors, dressed in jeans and his sleeveless shirt, his hands gripping the washbasin in front of him. His bandages are intact, and there’s a tube of antibiotic ointment on the shelf beneath the mirror.
“How are you?”
He gives her a rueful smile. “I’ve felt worse.”
She hovers near the door, suddenly feeling foolishly shy about venturing too far into the men’s washroom. “That doesn’t exactly reassure me, you know.”
“Sorry.” He looks down at his gauze-swathed arms, then up at her, his expression faintly sheepish. “I think I’m going to need your help here, Doctor Tancredi.”
She lets out the breath she hadn’t realised she was holding. “I thought you’d never ask.”
She manages to talk him into moving into the female washroom so she can change his bandages - I’m the only woman here, Michael, no one is going to care - dragging one of the metal chairs from the closest office before going to fetch the rest of the supplies the plastic surgeon had given them. A few minutes later, she looks him squarely in the eye, her stomach churning with nerves she hasn’t felt since she was a first year med student. “This is going to hurt.”
His lips twitch in a smile. “Like I said, I’ve had worse.”
She thinks of his mangled foot, her surgical gloves smeared bright red with his blood, and she has to admit he might have a point. “I’ll be gentle, okay?”
He shoots her a teasing glance that has no right to make her feel the way it does so early in the morning while sitting in the middle of a run down bathroom. “Ah, there’s the bedside manner I know and love.”
“Hush,” she tells him lightly as she begins to unwind the gauze from his left wrist. “Let me concentrate, hmmm?”
The next twenty minutes are not pleasant ones. Michael doesn’t complain once, and she doesn’t know if that makes her feel better or worse. As she peels the bandages away to reveal his reddened, blistered skin, he sits silently, his lips pressed into a tight line, his eyes closed, as if he doesn’t want to look at the damage he's allowed to be done.
She envies him the luxury of being able to close his eyes. She knows his skin will heal, and she accepts - well, she’s pretending she does, at least - that this had to be done, but the sight of his inflamed flesh still makes her stomach quiver.
When all the bandages are off, he takes a deep breath. “How bad is it?”
She puts her hand on his thigh, feels the muscles tense beneath her touch. “Like you feel asleep in the sun for a month.” She rubs her thumb over the curve of his kneecap, willing him to relax. “Give or take a day or two.”
Opening his eyes, he smiles at her. “Want to put some suntan lotion on my back?”
She chuckles under her breath, squeezing his knee quickly before she rises and makes her way to the washbasin. “I have to wash your back first, remember?”
For the second time that morning, he gives her a look that makes the heat rise up beneath her skin. “See, I knew there’d be a silver lining to all this.”
He falls silent as she gently washes his poor, raw skin with mild soap and the softest washcloth she could find, only the slightest hiss of breath between his teeth telling her when his pain threshold is in danger of being breached. Clenching her own teeth, she pats his skin dry as gently as possible, then reaches for the antibiotic ointment. Once again, she’s as gentle as possible, but she knows she’s hurting him. She forces herself to keep going, determined not to let her feelings interfere with the care she’s giving him. It’s only afterwards, once she’s helped him pull his shirt over the clean dressings and she’s washing her hands that she realises that she’s shaking.
Just as he had earlier, she grips the edge of the basin, her eyes closed as she tries to chase away the memory of his raw skin, bright red against the pale of her hands. She remembers the bedroom in the Chicago safe house, running her hands greedily over the indigo patterns on his chest and stomach, her fingers digging into angels and demons as he moved above her, and she wants to weep.
“Sara.” His hands are on her shoulders, turning her around to face him, pulling her close. She wants to protest, to tell him that any contact will be painful, but then his arms are around her and her cheek is pressed against his shoulder and she can’t bear to pull away.
“I’m sorry,” she mutters against the soft fabric of his t-shirt, gulping back her tears. She wants to tell him that if he can live with his scars, she can certainly live with hers, but the words won't come. “I don’t normally cry all over my patients.”
His soft chuckle rumbles from his chest to hers as his arms tighten around her. “I’m glad to hear it.”
~*~
After a lackluster breakfast with bad coffee - just like being back at Fox River, Brad Bellick tells her with a shy smile - it’s time to leave Chicago and walk into the lion’s den.
“Let’s go, people,” Don Self announces with irritating cheeriness. “Your chariot awaits.”
Rising to her feet, Sara clutches her purse a little closer to her chest. “Come into my parlor, said the spider to the fly.”
Lincoln tosses her a dry glance as he joins the exodus towards the door. “You said it.”
Beside her, Michael fidgets with the lapels of the jacket he'd insisted on wearing over his long-sleeved shirt. He's moving more easily now, although she's not sure if it's because of the painkillers or the relief of finally getting started. "Shall we?"
They walk towards the door together, his hand splayed wide on the small of her back, warm against the lingering reminders of Gretchen’s dedication to her work. They've all got scars, she thinks as she studies the men around her, their faces set in grim determination. Some people are just better at hiding them than others.
A moment later, she follows Michael and Lincoln out into the bright morning sunlight and towards the waiting SUVs without hesitation.
Because she's tired of hiding.
~*~
Fandom: Prison Break
Characters: Michael Scofield, Sara Tancredi, Lincoln Burrows
Pairing: Michael/Sara
Rating: PG-15
Length: 3,493 words
Summary: Sometimes blending into the crowd requires drastic measures.
Author's Note: Another post-Scylla fic that my little OCD soul demanded I write. I think we all know that certain tattoo-related things are not physically possible, but it's canon now and therefore fair game for ficcing and because I can never resist the urge to try and explain the unexplainable. *g*
~*~
The harsh lighting in the female bathroom in Don Self's building in Chicago is unforgiving, to say the least, and yet Sara can’t stop herself from turning her back to the large mirror, pulling up her shirt and peering over her shoulder. She hasn’t counted the scars yet, and she suddenly wonders if Michael did.
Yanking down her shirt, she washes her hands and face, then tidies her hair as best she can without a hairbrush. Don had promised to have fresh clothing and a few toiletries brought to them before the day is over, much to her relief. She feels as though she’s been wearing these clothes for a week instead of a day and a half, and the last time she felt this way is not a time she wants to relive.
Knowing she’s as freshened up as she’s going to get, she goes in search of Michael. They're supposedly being transfered to another location, somewhere to spend the night before flying to LA in the morning, but she's still fuzzy on the details. She finds him in the conference room, deep in conversation with his brother. She promptly backpedals, wanting to give them their privacy, but it’s too late. Lincoln beckons her into the room, then turns back to his brother. “Have you told her?”
A faintly trapped expression dances across Michael’s face, and Sara’s heart sinks. What now? “Not yet, no,” he says calmly, giving his brother a look that speaks volumes.
Gripping the back of Michael’s chair, she looks from one man to the other. “What’s going on?”
They both open their mouths to answer her, but Lincoln is faster. “He’s going to let some quack butcher him.”
“What?”
Michael gives his brother another hard glance, then turns to face her. “The tattoos have to go.”
She blinks. “Okay.” She looks at him, then at Lincoln’s quietly furious expression, and the vague conversation suddenly makes sense. “What, you mean now?”
“Yes.” His chair shifts beneath her hand as he gets to his feet. Shoving his hands in his pockets, he walks to the closest window, leaving her and Lincoln staring after him. “There’s a plastic surgeon here in Chicago who specialises in accelerated removal techniques.” He turns to look at her. “They’re taking me to him in an hour’s time. By the time I leave, the tattoos will be gone.”
It takes her a few seconds to realise she’s shaking her head. “Michael -” Her head has instantly filled with thoughts of anaphylactic shock and the toxins produced by the degradation of tattoo ink, and it’s suddenly all too easy to understand Lincoln’s dour expression. “Do you have any idea of the risks involved in performing that drastic a procedure?”
Her voice wavers on the last word, and the stubborn set of his jaw relaxes. “According to Self, this guy’s got a spotless track record.”
Lincoln rubs his hand over his shaved head, an agitated rasp of skin against bristled hair. “You don’t have to do this, man.”
“Yes, I do.” Tugging up his sleeves one by one, Michael holds out his arms to them both, his palms turned upwards as if in supplication. “As long as I have these tattoos, all the fake IDs and passports in the world aren’t going to make me invisible.” He looks at his brother, and his face softens. “They existed only to save you from the electric chair.” He smiles. “Mission accomplished, wouldn’t you say?”
Lincoln looks momentarily lost for words, then shakes his head again. “But there’s gonna be scarring, right?”
"Yes." Michael’s gaze locks with hers, the warmth in his eyes as palpable as the remembered touch of his fingertips on her marred skin. “But I can live with those.”
~*~
It’s not the longest ten hours of her life, but it might just be a close second. She drinks bad coffee and reads outdated magazines and considers demanding to be allowed into the treatment room at least once an hour. Finally, just after two a.m., the door to the waiting room opens and she’s looking at their newly self-appointed minder. “He’s all done.”
Looking past him, she’s on her feet before her brain can realise her legs are tingling with pins and needles. Michael is in the anteroom next door, glassy-eyed with pain as two nurses gingerly deposit him into an armchair. A sudden burst of fury rushes up from somewhere deep in Sara’s chest, and she directs it squarely at the most convenient target. “He looks as though he’s about to pass out.”
Their FBI handler meets her accusing stare with a casual shrug. “What can I say? He refused every sedative we offered him.” He beckons to her to come closer, as if granting her permission to visit the patient. “If it makes you feel better, he only threw up once.”
Still two steps away from the door, she swears under her breath - she has no idea if she’s angry with Michael or the FBI or the plastic surgeon wielding the laser, but she’s certainly angry with someone - then looks him in the eye. “Do we have a takeout supply of those painkillers?”
“No.”
“Could we get some, please?”
He looks as though he’s tempted to argue with her - although exactly why he would, she doesn’t know - then he nods. “Uh, sure.”
When she steps into the small recovery room, Michael’s smile is a pale imitation of its usual self. “Hey.”
His jacket is lying across his lap, the front of his t-shirt clearly showing the added bulk of the bandages she knows are covering his raw skin. Skimming her fingertips along the whisker-roughened curve of his jaw, she gently cups the back of his head as she bends down to kiss him. “And I thought I was a glutton for punishment.”
She feels his sigh against her lips, and despite the circumstances, a quiver of longing shivers through her belly. Their rushed lovemaking - God, was that only two days ago? - has done absolutely nothing to take the edge off her craving for him. If anything, it’s only made it worse. “You know me,” he murmurs wearily. “Gotta keep testing my limits.”
“Well, take it from me, this particular experiment is over.” She wants very much to gather him into her arms, but she doesn’t want to make him feel any more uncomfortable then she knows he already is. “You up for the ride back?”
He nods, splaying his hands wide on the armrests of the chair for support as he slowly gets to his feet. “I got a bad case of sunburn once, down in Baja.”
She slips her hand around his waist, careful to put her hand on his hip, below the demarcation line of his erstwhile ink work. “Fifty cent beers at happy hour?”
His smile doesn’t quite disguise the pain in his eyes. “That’s the place.” They walk slowly towards the door, his stride growing steadier with every step. “Anyway, I fell asleep on the beach one afternoon, woke up lobster-red and shed my skin for a week afterwards.”
The absurd thought pops into her head that he must have been there alone, otherwise there would have been someone to wake him. She’s not sure if the realisation pleases or saddens her. Perhaps a little of both. “And how does this compare?”
“Like I fell asleep in the sun for a week.”
“Ah.”
He clenches his jaw as he slowly climbs into the backseat of the SUV beside her, and she can’t helping thinking of all those extreme makeover reality shows she’d once watched with one eye as she’d laid on the couch reading. “Tell me honestly,” she murmurs as she helps him buckle his seatbelt. “On a scale of one to ten, how bad is it?”
He considers the question for a moment, his fingers fretfully plucking at the front of his t-shirt. “Five.”
She studies the gleam of sweat above his top lip, the way his hands are flexing on his thighs. “Liar.”
He tilts his head to look at her. “You know, I’m sure your bedside manner used to be a lot more charming.”
She reaches for his hand as the front doors of the SUV slam shut and the engine roars into life. “Gotta be cruel to be kind, Scofield,” she says, conscious of their audience, telling him something very different with her eyes. I love you.
His hand tightens around hers, hard enough to make her knuckles grow pale, and she knows he's heard her.
~*~
Their plane to LA doesn’t leave until nine o’clock that morning. Until then, they’ve been deposited in a secure wing of an administration building that doesn’t seem to be on the FBI’s official radar. Don had taken his leave of them around three a.m., saying they'd be safe under the watchful eye of his men, something Sara knows is meant to be reassuring but fills her with the compulsion to constantly look over her shoulder.
The majority of their motley group has fanned out, taking up residence in bunk beds randomly scattered through the disused offices, trying to get whatever sleep they can. As she glares at Michael over the top of her outstretched hand, she wishes she’d had the common sense to join them.
“Please take them.”
He looks at the painkillers in her palm, then shakes his head. “I’ll be okay.”
He’s lying on his back on a narrow camp bed, his arms ramrod straight at his sides, looking both exhausted and miserable. She grits her teeth in a vain attempt to stop herself from saying what she dearly wants to say, but she’s fighting a losing battle. “You don’t win extra points for being a fucking martyr, Michael.”
His eyes widen, making her belatedly realise she’s never sworn quite so thoroughly in front of him, then he grins. “I was right. Definitely not as charming as you used to be.”
She suddenly feels close to tears, a combination of the lateness of the hour, frustration and the warmth of his smile in the face of what he’s going through. “You need to sleep, and you won’t be able to sleep unless you take these.”
His smile falters, his gaze sliding away from hers. “I’ll be fine.”
“Oh, for the love of -” She turns to see Lincoln watching them from the doorway. Striding into the room, he holds his hand out for both the pills and the glass of water she’s holding. He turns from her to his brother, practically shoving the glass and the medication under his nose. “Just take the damned pills and get to sleep, okay?”
Michael’s gaze flicks from his brother’s face to hers, then he blows out a loud breath that sounds like a sigh of defeat. Sara rubs her hands up and down her arms, happy to let Lincoln help his brother sit up and take the painkillers. Once the glass is empty and the pills are gone, Michael sinks back onto the bunk, his eyes closed. “Thanks.”
She has no idea if he’s thanking her or Lincoln, but that doesn’t matter. What matters is that he’s admitted he’s not indestructible long enough to get some sleep. She glances at Lincoln, her heart twisting at his expression. Guilt is etched into every line on his face, his eyes dark with self-reproach. Taking the empty glass from him, she beckons to him to follow her from the room. Once outside in the hallway, she shuts the door behind them, not wanting Michael to hear them.
“He’s going to be very sore for a couple of weeks, but with the proper care, he’ll be perfectly fine.”
The tense set of Lincoln’s shoulders seems to relax, if only a little. “In that case, I’m glad he’s got you.”
She looks at him, sleep deprivation making her bold. “Are you?”
His eyes widen slightly, and she knows he’s deciphered the unspoken layers of the simple question. “Yeah. Yeah, I am.”
They exchange an awkward smile - so strange to think they were more at ease with each other when he was her patient on Death Row - then he jerks his head towards the closed door. “Try and get some sleep, okay?”
“You, too.”
Back in the small office she and Michael have managed to procure for themselves, she leans against the closed door and studies him, her throat tightening with the threat of tears. His once-white tank is dotted with blood, and her fingers itch to check beneath the bandages swathing his upper body. Kicking off her shoes, she flicks off the bright overhead light, waiting until her eyes adjust to the moonlight coming through the barred window. Once she has her bearings, she makes her way to the camp bed that’s been shoved up against Michael’s, peering sadly at the flat pillow and rough woollen blanket. Of all the ways she’d imagined they might spend their first night sleeping under the same roof, this was not one of them.
“Michael?”
“Hmmm?”
“I’m sorry I called you a martyr.” She’s whispering, but her voice sounds preternaturally loud in the quiet room. “You’re one of the bravest people I’ve ever known.”
In the darkness, she hears his bed creak as he moves, then she feels the touch of his hand, his fingertips skimming down the length of her arm. “That makes two of us, then.”
~*~
She’s stiff and sore when she wakes, and to add insult to injury, she’s alone in the room, the camp bed beside her empty. Stretching out her hand, she touches cool sheets and blankets, and realises Michael must have left his bed quite a while ago.
Hastily dressed in some of the clean clothes that had mercifully appeared in a plastic bag while they’d been at the plastic surgeon’s rooms, she goes in search of him. If he’s done anything ridiculous like try to remove those bandages himself, she vows silently, she isn’t going to be responsible for her actions.
A quick word with Brad leads her to the men’s washroom, where she relies on a hasty knock on the door to make sure she’s not about to walk in on anyone she shouldn’t. “Michael? Are you okay?”
“Kind of.”
He sounds much more like himself than he had last night, but she still enters the room with a faint sense of dread, worried about what she might find. To her relief, he’s standing in front of the mirrors, dressed in jeans and his sleeveless shirt, his hands gripping the washbasin in front of him. His bandages are intact, and there’s a tube of antibiotic ointment on the shelf beneath the mirror.
“How are you?”
He gives her a rueful smile. “I’ve felt worse.”
She hovers near the door, suddenly feeling foolishly shy about venturing too far into the men’s washroom. “That doesn’t exactly reassure me, you know.”
“Sorry.” He looks down at his gauze-swathed arms, then up at her, his expression faintly sheepish. “I think I’m going to need your help here, Doctor Tancredi.”
She lets out the breath she hadn’t realised she was holding. “I thought you’d never ask.”
She manages to talk him into moving into the female washroom so she can change his bandages - I’m the only woman here, Michael, no one is going to care - dragging one of the metal chairs from the closest office before going to fetch the rest of the supplies the plastic surgeon had given them. A few minutes later, she looks him squarely in the eye, her stomach churning with nerves she hasn’t felt since she was a first year med student. “This is going to hurt.”
His lips twitch in a smile. “Like I said, I’ve had worse.”
She thinks of his mangled foot, her surgical gloves smeared bright red with his blood, and she has to admit he might have a point. “I’ll be gentle, okay?”
He shoots her a teasing glance that has no right to make her feel the way it does so early in the morning while sitting in the middle of a run down bathroom. “Ah, there’s the bedside manner I know and love.”
“Hush,” she tells him lightly as she begins to unwind the gauze from his left wrist. “Let me concentrate, hmmm?”
The next twenty minutes are not pleasant ones. Michael doesn’t complain once, and she doesn’t know if that makes her feel better or worse. As she peels the bandages away to reveal his reddened, blistered skin, he sits silently, his lips pressed into a tight line, his eyes closed, as if he doesn’t want to look at the damage he's allowed to be done.
She envies him the luxury of being able to close his eyes. She knows his skin will heal, and she accepts - well, she’s pretending she does, at least - that this had to be done, but the sight of his inflamed flesh still makes her stomach quiver.
When all the bandages are off, he takes a deep breath. “How bad is it?”
She puts her hand on his thigh, feels the muscles tense beneath her touch. “Like you feel asleep in the sun for a month.” She rubs her thumb over the curve of his kneecap, willing him to relax. “Give or take a day or two.”
Opening his eyes, he smiles at her. “Want to put some suntan lotion on my back?”
She chuckles under her breath, squeezing his knee quickly before she rises and makes her way to the washbasin. “I have to wash your back first, remember?”
For the second time that morning, he gives her a look that makes the heat rise up beneath her skin. “See, I knew there’d be a silver lining to all this.”
He falls silent as she gently washes his poor, raw skin with mild soap and the softest washcloth she could find, only the slightest hiss of breath between his teeth telling her when his pain threshold is in danger of being breached. Clenching her own teeth, she pats his skin dry as gently as possible, then reaches for the antibiotic ointment. Once again, she’s as gentle as possible, but she knows she’s hurting him. She forces herself to keep going, determined not to let her feelings interfere with the care she’s giving him. It’s only afterwards, once she’s helped him pull his shirt over the clean dressings and she’s washing her hands that she realises that she’s shaking.
Just as he had earlier, she grips the edge of the basin, her eyes closed as she tries to chase away the memory of his raw skin, bright red against the pale of her hands. She remembers the bedroom in the Chicago safe house, running her hands greedily over the indigo patterns on his chest and stomach, her fingers digging into angels and demons as he moved above her, and she wants to weep.
“Sara.” His hands are on her shoulders, turning her around to face him, pulling her close. She wants to protest, to tell him that any contact will be painful, but then his arms are around her and her cheek is pressed against his shoulder and she can’t bear to pull away.
“I’m sorry,” she mutters against the soft fabric of his t-shirt, gulping back her tears. She wants to tell him that if he can live with his scars, she can certainly live with hers, but the words won't come. “I don’t normally cry all over my patients.”
His soft chuckle rumbles from his chest to hers as his arms tighten around her. “I’m glad to hear it.”
~*~
After a lackluster breakfast with bad coffee - just like being back at Fox River, Brad Bellick tells her with a shy smile - it’s time to leave Chicago and walk into the lion’s den.
“Let’s go, people,” Don Self announces with irritating cheeriness. “Your chariot awaits.”
Rising to her feet, Sara clutches her purse a little closer to her chest. “Come into my parlor, said the spider to the fly.”
Lincoln tosses her a dry glance as he joins the exodus towards the door. “You said it.”
Beside her, Michael fidgets with the lapels of the jacket he'd insisted on wearing over his long-sleeved shirt. He's moving more easily now, although she's not sure if it's because of the painkillers or the relief of finally getting started. "Shall we?"
They walk towards the door together, his hand splayed wide on the small of her back, warm against the lingering reminders of Gretchen’s dedication to her work. They've all got scars, she thinks as she studies the men around her, their faces set in grim determination. Some people are just better at hiding them than others.
A moment later, she follows Michael and Lincoln out into the bright morning sunlight and towards the waiting SUVs without hesitation.
Because she's tired of hiding.
~*~