Fresh Air - Michael/Sara (1/1)
Title: Fresh Air (1/1)
Fandom: Prison Break
Characters: Sara Tancredi, Michael Scofield (cameos by several other characters)
Pairing: Michael/Sara
Length: 5,000 words
Rating: R
Summary: Claustrophobia comes in many forms. Spoilers for Season Four, including spoilers and speculation for the upcoming episode, #404, Eagles and Angels.
Author's Note:This is for scribblecat, who just happened to mention to me that she really wanted a particular kind of story using the roof top of the warehouse. I really intended to write something fluffy, but sadly for her, it turned into a serious kind of story that also contained spoilers, so even though this is for her, she can't read it until after #404 airs. Oops. I also may have tossed a tiny bit of Safe House-influenced canon into this one. Oops #2. No beta again, so please feel free to point out my mistakes.
~*~
Sara Tancredi is used to living alone.
She misses it.
Over the last few months, her personal boundaries have been tested on a daily basis, but never the way they’re being tested now. It’s strange to think there are times when she feels almost as claustrophobic now as she did during her time in the Company’s hands, but she does. The last time she’d shared her living space with this many people was during college, and Northwestern was nothing like this. Of course, she thinks wryly, there is a certain frat house quality in this place at times, just minus the beer.
Michael, ever the gentleman, had been quick to secure a small measure of privacy for her in the form of her aquatic sleeping quarters, but sleeping can only take up so much of every day. Sometimes, during the day, she feels as though the walls are pressing in on her, that there are too many people around her, filling the air with their voices and their feelings and the smell of their sweat and frustration. In contrast, her little boat smells of nothing more than her perfume and deodorant and laundered sheets, and there are days when she wishes she didn’t have to climb down that ladder.
The warehouse has one bathroom, one kitchen, two toilets and a small storage room containing all their medical supplies and toiletries. There is one huge room containing single eight bunk beds shoved against the walls, and the open living space that can feel as vast as the expanse of sky outside the heavy metal door or as cramped as a walk-in closet. No alcohol - something that leaves her relieved and resentful at the same time - but enough soda and snack food and frozen TV dinners to feed them for a month.
If they lived that long, of course.
During that first awkward communal dinner, Brad Bellick had looked at her expectantly across the kitchen, as if waiting for her to dish up. Clapping his hand on the other man’s beefy shoulder, Michael had steered him towards the huge freezer. “Sara may be the only woman here, Bradley,” he’d said flatly, “but that doesn’t make her your mother.”
Brad’s face had turned red, and he’d hastily stammered an apology, although whether he’d been apologising her or Michael, she wasn’t sure. Sara had given him a reassuring smile, just to cover her bases. Afterwards, sitting beside her at one end of the long table as they pick over their own reheated meals, Michael had gently nudged her knee with his. “I hope I wasn’t out of line earlier.”
She’d shaken her head, wondering how it’s possible to feel that chaste contact in every inch of her body. “A doctor’s first instinct is to nurture, I know, but I draw the line at being the only one prepared to work the microwave.”
He’d smiled, one well-shaped eyebrow lifting. “That sounds like the voice of experience talking.”
She’d chuckled, rifling through a compartment of peas with her fork. “Let’s just say I’ve lived with enough slobs to know that I’m never going down that road again.”
He’d suddenly seemed engrossed in doing the same, but then he’d darted her a faintly shy glance. “Have you lived with many people?”
She’d given him an amused look. “Men, you mean?”
If she hadn’t known better, she would have thought he’d been blushing. “Uh, yeah.”
“A few.” Ducking her head, she’d caught his eye, doing her best not to smile too widely. “What about you? How many people have you lived with?”
“Including Fox River?”
“No.”
His gaze had slid away from hers. “On a one to one basis, you mean?”
“That’s right.”
He’d glanced around the table, but everyone else was engrossed in their own thoughts. Finally, when he’d obviously realised there was no escape, he’d cleared his throat. “None.”
Her heart had twisted at his sheepish expression. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
He’d shrugged, then speared a piece of what she’d decided was chicken. Or maybe pork. “I’m past thirty,” he’d muttered, as though that should have been explanation enough, and perhaps it was.
“Maybe you’re just a late bloomer,” she’d suggested, letting her knee rest against his beneath the table, and again that hint of colour had risen up in his tanned face.
“Maybe.” She’d felt the hesitant touch of his hand on her knee, his fingertips tracing an unnameable shape on her skin through her jeans. “I’m pretty sure I know how to work a microwave, though.”
Their eyes had met, and the warmth humming beneath his touch had spread softly through her, down to her fingertips and toes and everywhere in between. “Well, that’s a very good start.”
“Hey, Michael?”
They’d turned in unison at the sound of Lincoln’s voice. “Roland thinks he’s found something.”
The hand on her knee had tightened, then relaxed. “Be right there.”
And so a pattern was set.
They all live together, frantically plotting and scheming for the answers that might one day give them back their lives, and in the quiet moments, she and Michael unconsciously gravitate towards each other. They talk hesitantly of the past and the present and the future, and not once do they manage to finish a conversation without being interrupted. Which is completely fine, she reminds herself, because they are in a middle of a war there and they’re both painfully aware of the bigger picture, but sometimes -
Sometimes, they need something to help them see past the bigger picture.
~*~
Bruce dies.
Bruce dies, and it's all her fault. The claustrophobia becomes unbearable to the point of wanting to peel away her skin, and she knows she has to get out. My fault my fault my fault my fault my fault my fault.
Railing at the four walls surrounding her, she grabs her purse, ignoring the startled glances from her fellow hackers as she stalks out of the warehouse. Michael isn’t there, he’s ensconced somewhere in a car with Lincoln and Mahone, doing a short stint of recon work, and later she will wonder if she would have still walked out if he’d been there to stop her.
Maybe, maybe not.
Because even if he'd been there, she would have still needed air. She would have still needed space. She would have still needed -
She needed a drink.
It doesn’t take her long to find a bar. Even less time to order a double scotch and throw it back, almost purring in the back of her throat as the alcohol explodes in the pit of her belly.
As she places the empty glass on the table in front of her, misery and self-loathing wells up inside her in equal doses. She doesn’t want Bruce to be dead. She doesn’t want to be here. She doesn’t want to do this. She wants so much to not feel anything but she doesn’t want to do this. She wants another drink. She doesn’t want to stumble and fall, not after everything she’s managed to survive. She doesn’t want to have to look Michael in the eye and tell him that, after everything they’ve already endured, she wasn’t strong enough to resist her demons.
She pushes the glass away with a jerk of her wrist, sitting back in her seat, struggling to control her suddenly erratic breathing. Dropping her head into her hands, she presses her fingertips hard against her temples, pulling up the words from the bottom of her soul, the words she both reveres and loathes. “God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change,” she mutters beneath her breath, the scotch on her tongue mingling with the pleading words, “courage to change the things I can, and wisdom to know the difference.”
She sits alone with the empty glass in front of her, saying the words over and over again, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. She wants very much to have another drink. She wants very much to drink enough to forget the fact that she doesn’t want to be here, getting drunk.
She doesn’t.
Because no matter how much alcohol she pours down her throat, Bruce will still be dead.
It's a painfully obvious and long-overdue epiphany, but she reaches for it gratefully, hugging it close.
Grabbing her purse, she makes her way back to the bar, pushing a ten dollar note across the polished surface to the middle-aged female bartender. “Thank you.” The woman smiles at her, then Sara is outside in the sunshine once more, her gaze narrowed against the sudden brightness. The buzz from the alcohol has faded, leaving her feeling wilted and small. Taking a deep breath, she begins to walk, slowly making her way back towards her temporary home. With each step, her conscious smarts a little more. She’d left without saying a word. She pauses on the curb as she waits for a car to pass, her heart sinking as she realises she’d also walked out without her cell phone.
It won’t take Michael long to learn about Bruce’s death. If she’s not back by the time that happens -
She starts to walk faster, belatedly realising how far she’d travelled in search of a bar that hadn’t looked like a dive. She suddenly feels very alone, and picks up her pace a little more. Sweat prickles her scalp, dampening the back of her neck and the hollow between her breasts, the midday sun and a growing panic conspiring to flood her body with an unpleasant heat that the breeze coming off the nearby bay does nothing to abate.
She notices him when she’s halfway back to the warehouse. It’s hard not to notice him. Standing on the boardwalk, he’s tall and broad-shouldered, his dark face and hands still against the backdrop of his impeccable black suit.
He’s watching her.
She thinks of Lincoln telling her the story of his arrest, of how he’d taken one look at that guy and known he was Company. At the time she’d thought she’d understood, but now she realises she hadn’t understood at all.
She understands now.
The heat beneath her skin vanishes, replaced by a chill that goes right down to her bones. She has no doubt that he’s armed, but surely there are too many people on the boardwalk for him to risk taking a shot at her. She could run, but to where? She can’t lead him back to the others, no matter how tempted she is to seek sanctuary there.
Without knowing exactly where she’s going, she begins to walk faster and faster, clutching her purse tightly to her side. Daring a glance over her shoulder, her blood chills further when she sees he’s following her, his stride unhurried yet urgent.
She starts to run.
Looking frantically over her shoulder as her feet pound on the pavement, her worst fears are confirmed, because he’s running too, his gait surprisingly agile for such a heavy-set man.
Fuck.
Panic rises up inside her, seizing her lungs and squeezing them hard, making it hard to breathe, but she keeps running. She can’t possibly stop to ask for help from any of the startled pedestrians she passes, because she knows all too well she’d simply be signing their death warrant.
She heads away from the warehouse, desperately trying to recall what she knows about this area. Remembering passing a strip of eateries and bars on the next block, she veers off to the right, plunging her way through a group of teenaged boys who greet her intrusion with shouts of laughter and ribald invitations. She leaves them in her wake, coming to another intersection, desperation clawing at her, her skin crawling with the knowledge her pursuer is still breathing down her neck.
A black SUV suddenly screeches to a halt in front of her, blocking her pursuer from her sight. The back door is flung open and she is looking at Michael’s panicked face. “Get in!”
Her pulse roaring in her ears, she flings herself into the backseat, falling across Michael’s lap as he slams the door shut behind her. She hears him say, "We've got her. I'll call you when we get clear," then the car jerks forward, roaring away from her would-be assailant, and Michael is quick to reach for her, pulling her up to sit beside him. She fumbles with her seatbelt, trying to understand how they managed to be in exactly the right place at the right time. “How did you find me?”
He puts his hand over her trembling fingers, helping her click the buckle into place. “There’s a spare ankle bracelet in your purse. Self helped us track it down.”
She stares at him, too numb to be outraged. “Did you put it there?”
Michael returns her gaze steadily. “Yes.”
“When?”
His gaze flicks towards the front seat, where Lincoln and Alexander Mahone are discussing the best route to take in order to shake off the Company agent, then back to her. “This morning, before I left.”
She looks away, her gaze dropping to the hands twisting in her lap. He’d been worried that something would happen while he was gone, and she’d immediately proved him right. “Bruce is dead,” she tells him, her voice shaking, and feels the touch of his hand on her shoulder.
“I know.” She looks back at him, and sees that his eyes are glittering with anger on her behalf. “I’m so sorry, Sara.”
She starts to shake her head, wanting to tell him it’s not his fault but hers, then his arm is around her shoulders, pulling her closer. Pressing her face against the solid warmth of his shoulder, she breathes him in, forcing back her tears, wanting to wait until she’s alone to give into her grief. Over her head, she hears them talking about the man who’d been following her, about how he must have learned they were in LA from Bruce. Every time they say says his name out loud, she feels Michael’s arm tighten around her in silent apology. No one speaks directly to her, and she’s glad.
When they reach the warehouse, Michael curls his hand around her arm, drawing her to one side. “Do you want to rest for a while?”
A surge of her old defensiveness washes over her, and the words are out of her mouth before she can stop them. “I only had one drink.”
“Okay,” he returns mildly, rubbing his hand up and down her back. “I just thought you might appreciate some time alone while I get in touch with Self.”
She swallows hard, trying to dislodge the sudden lump in her throat. Despite his calm demeanour, she knows her disappearing act had frightened him badly. That makes two of us, she thinks. “Okay.”
He hesitates, obviously torn between following Lincoln and Mahone to the large table that has become their centre of operations and being with her. “Unless you want some company?”
She shakes her head, her emotions too raw to word her answer as anything but a polite rejection. “Not right now.”
He nods, but she doesn’t imagine the disappointment that shines briefly in his eyes. “Sure.”
He comes to her an hour later, as if he knows exactly the moment that her tears have dried and she’s once again sitting staring into space, mentally lashing herself over and over again. She should have never called Bruce from Panama. She should never have given into his insistence that she at least tell him which state she was heading towards when they’d left Chicago. The list of all the things she should have never done grows longer and longer, until it stretches out before her, a never-ending litany of recrimination and anger that soon turns inward, making her feel as though she’ll never be able to draw an untainted breath again.
She hears the soft tread of his shoes on the metal ladder, then he’s there, looking at her with a tenderness that makes her want to weep. “Hey.”
“Hey.”
He steps onto the small boat, slowly making his way to where she’s sitting. He drops down beside her, his elbows resting on his knees, his hands clasped. “You okay?”
It’s a painfully rhetorical question, but she knows why he’s asked it. I’m here, when you want to talk, I’m here. He needs her to talk to him almost as much as she needs to keep from adding to his already overburdened shoulders. When she doesn't reply, he sighs heavily. “Why didn’t you call me?”
“I don’t know.” She’s been asking the same thing ever since she’d left that bar, trying to make sense of the mess that was her mind in the few minutes after she’d learned of Bruce’s death. “I guess I haven’t gotten used to the idea of being able to rely on someone yet.”
They’d both made a vow to be as honest as possible with each other, but she sees the wince that ripples across his face. “Why did you leave the warehouse?”
She lifts her hands, then drops them again, defeated by her own muddled reasoning. “I had to get out. I couldn’t breathe in here.”
He nods, as though he understands, and maybe he does. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here when you got the call.”
“Not your fault.” She puts her hand on his arm, no longer able to resist the comfort she knows being close to him will bring. The muscles tense beneath her touch, then he covers her hand with his, threading his long fingers through hers.
“It’s not yours either.”
“It is.” She shakes her head, knowing he’s talking about Bruce now, knowing he’s just telling her what he thinks she needs to hear. “It’s my fault he’s dead.”
“And it’s my fault you’re involved in this at all,” he says in a quiet, hollow voice that makes her heart twist. “So where do we go from here?”
They stare at each other for a long moment, and she sees the fear in his eyes. “We go forward,” she finally tells him. “Together.”
Relief swims in his eyes, then he takes an audible breath. “I apologise for not telling you about the ankle monitor in your purse."
His oddly formal phrasing makes her heart sink. A small part of her wants to fight him, to be angry at his high-handed intrusion of her privacy, but she knows the normal rules don't exactly apply at this particular point in their lives. "If you hadn't done it, I'd probably be dead by now."
His face pales, his hand tightening around hers. "I want you to promise me something.”
She knows what he’s going to ask of her. If he’d asked her this morning, perhaps she would have bristled, but not now. “What?”
“Promise me you won’t ever do that again.”
The lump in her throat is back, the size of a closed fist. “I promise.”
~*~
Later that night, long after the sun has set, he seeks her out again, finding her at the computer as she hovers behind Roland’s shoulder, looking for something to distract her from her thoughts. “Come with me?”
“Where are we going?”
He gives her a small smile. “Does it matter?”
She does her best to ignore Roland’s knowing smirk. “I guess not.”
He guides her to the back recesses of the warehouse, then through a metal door that leads to fire stairs winding upwards towards the roof. “When did you discover this?”
“This afternoon,” he says softly as he flicks on the torch she belatedly realises he’s carrying. “I wanted to check the entire building for any likely points of entry.”
Another hefty dose of guilt wells up inside her, but as if he knows she’s about to apologise again, he takes her hand and draws her towards the stairs. “Come on.”
The muscles in her thighs are burning by the time they reach the touch of the stairs, but then he unlocks and pushes open a heavy metal door and they’re suddenly on the roof top. “Oh, Michael-” The Port of Los Angeles stretches out below them, vast and teeming with evening activity, glittering lights dotting the inky expanse of water. The air around them is fresh and cool, and there’s not a single thing between them and the sky. “This is beautiful.”
“When I was up here earlier, I thought about what you’d said, how you felt as though you couldn’t breathe properly downstairs.” He gives her a shy smile that totally belies the fact he’d held her naked in his arms only two days ago. “I thought you might like the chance to get some fresh air.”
Her eyes are burning, and while she’d like to blame the sting of the breeze, she knows better. “Thank you.”
The next few minutes remind her that he is a man who likes to be prepared. He produces a worn but outwardly clean blanket, which he folds in half, then places in the doorway. There’s just enough room for the two of them to sit side by side, and she marvels at his foresight. Although they’re technically outside, they’re not visible from the street, and from where he’s sitting, she suspects he has a clear view of the road leading to the warehouse. Stretching her legs out beside his, she leans into him, enjoying the warmth of him against her as she gazes out towards the horizon.
“Now that’s what I call an ocean view.”
“Not bad,” he agrees, sliding his hand beneath her hair to stroke the back of her neck. “Pity about the neighbours, though.”
To her surprise, she finds herself chuckling as she leans into his touch. “What was your apartment like?”
His fingertips are brushing the curve of her neck now, sending a flurry of goosebumps across her skin. “I’ll have you know it was a loft.”
“Whatever, Scofield. What was it like?”
“It was-" He pauses, as if searching for the right word, “It was nice.”
“Nice?” She tilts back her head to look at him. “That’s it?”
There’s a second pause, longer this time. “It had a balcony and I could see the river from almost every room.” He smiles at her. “I liked that.”
“I wish I’d seen it.”
He smiles at the wistfulness in her voice. “So do I.”
Bowing his head, he presses a kiss to her shoulder, his lips warm against the skin bared by the rounded neckline of her shirt. She closes her eyes, not bothering to swallow her sigh. His hand skims down the length of her spine, finding the hem of her shirt and the bare skin beneath in one smooth caress. “Maybe, when all this is over, I could take you there. I’m sure the new owner won’t mind.”
His fingertips brush one of her healed scars, and she can’t control her reaction. She arches away from his touch, her eyes still tightly closed, then she feels his other hand on her cheek, turning her face to his. “Sara.”
She opens her eyes to find him gazing at her with a gentle longing that makes her pulse spike. “I’m sorry.” She lifts her hand, wrapping her fingers around his wrist. "It's not you, okay? It's nothing you're doing wrong, believe me."
"I know." One hand still cupping her face, he brushes his fingers over one scar, then another, then another, his touch as light as a down feather, his gaze locked with hers. “One day, they’ll be nothing more than faded marks on your skin.”
Her throat is tight, filled with all the words that she’s not brave enough to say. She still hasn’t told him about her time with the dark-haired woman she now knows as Gretchen. All he knows is that it’s something she’s afraid she’ll never be able to forget. “I hope so.”
When he finally kisses her, she sighs again, her breath mingling with his. The hand on her back grows still as she kisses him back, sliding her tongue between his lips to taste the dark spiciness of his mouth. A low groan rumbles deep in his throat, then his arms are sliding around her and tugging her closer, their kiss swiftly becoming something alive and hungry. Desire twists through her belly, and she turns in his arms, trying to keep her balance as she shifts closer, wanting no space between them, wanting to feel the solid heat of him against her, anchoring her.
Somehow she ends up in his lap, her knees pressing hard into the thin blanket. One of his hand is threaded tightly through her hair, holding her steady as he devours her mouth with his, the other hand - oh, God, his other hand - has glided up her ribcage to cup her breast. Her spine arches as she leans into his touch, her nipple rising up tight and hard against his palm. Arousal is sparking along every single nerve-ending, setting her alight, and she knows there is more than one way to blot out grief.
He murmurs her name against her jaw, his free hand sliding down to her hips, then lower to cup her bottom, urging her closer, making her gasp. He’s hard against her, and the feel of him almost has her shaking with an urgent need to go further, go faster, just go until there’s nothing between them and he’s inside her and there's nothing else in her head but how he makes her feel. “I love you.”
His lips graze her ear, his stubbled chin rough against her throat, his voice thick with a tempered impatience as he breathes the words. “I love you, too.”
His cell phone rings just as he reaches for the button of her jeans, and she realises she’s been waiting to be interrupted ever since they started climbing the stairs. Swearing unsteadily beneath his breath, he presses his forehead against hers for a few seconds, his chest heaving as though he’s just run a marathon, then he reaches for the phone he’d placed so carefully beside him only a few moments earlier. “Yes?” He lifts his hand to his temple, massaging his forehead with a very different kind of impatience. “We’re on the roof. We’ll be down in a moment.”
He flips the phone shut and gives her a look that is pure frustration, if tinged with a hint of wry humour. “I guess five minutes of privacy was a little too much to hope for.”
Putting her hands on his shoulders, she dips her head to kiss him softly, catching his bottom lip between hers. Drawing back, she smiles. “And here I was thinking you’d be good for at least ten minutes this time around.”
“You talk the talk, Doctor Tancredi,” he murmurs as she scrambles to her feet and dusts off the knees of her jeans. “I just hope you can walk the walk when the time comes.”
Knowing the final seconds of their time alone are dissolving around them, she throws back a challenge of her own, desperately wanting to hang onto the way she feels when she’s with him like this. “When the time comes, Scofield, I’m not planning on doing any walking.”
His answering grin is decidedly wolfish, then he shuts the heavy metal behind them, shutting out the night sky with a sharp clang. The darkness rises up around them, his hand finding hers as the beam of the flashlight cuts into the blackness. “Mahone and Linc have picked up something that could lead us to the third cardholder.”
And just like that, they’re back in the game, this ridiculous, insidious game of fighting for their lives. She gives herself a few seconds to think longingly of the clear night sky on the other side of the door, then she nods. “Good.”
They make their way down the fire stairs, following the beam of torchlight. When they reach the bottom of the stairs, Michael reaches for the fire escape door, then turns to her instead, pulling her into a gentle embrace. “We’ll have much longer than ten minutes," he tells her with a sudden fierceness, his arms tightening around her. "I promise you.”
She buries her face in the crook of his neck, inhaling the comforting scent of his skin. She knows he’s not talking about sex now. He’s talking about the rest of their lives, and the thought both thrills and terrifies her. She wants it so badly, it seems almost wrong to say the words out loud, as if by keeping silent, she won't jinx it. “I hope so.”
He kisses her one last time, his lips soft and warm against hers, then pushes open the door, bringing them both back into the harsh light of the warehouse. As they pass her sleeping quarters, he gives her a questioning look, as though asking her if she wants to retire rather than joining him. She shakes her head. “I’m okay.”
“Good.” His smile is a relieved one, and she thinks of the promise he’d extracted from her earlier that day. She’s not the only one who feels more anchored when they’re together.
They rejoin the others, slipping into the empty spaces at the long table. She soon realises that Bruce's death is now common knowledge. One by one the men dart hesitantly sympathetic looks in her direction, and she acknowledges each one with a nod of thanks. If any of them resent her unplanned outing earlier today - and she's quite sure some of them do - she doesn't see it in their faces.
The conversation immediately kicks into high gear, the familiar verbal soundtrack of her life. As she listens to the sound of Michael's voice, soothing despite the subject matter, she forces herself to think of Bruce as she'd last seen him, smiling and pleased to see her reunited with Michael. She thinks of her father, gathering her in his arms in her tiny kitchen, telling her he was going to make everything okay. She thinks of Michael, finding a way to bring her beneath the open sky, his hand tracing the ghostly reminders of her pain on her skin, his eyes and his touch telling her that he understood her need to escape.
The air around her is thick with anticipation and frustration and stale smell of reheated food, but the fresh scent of the night air is still with her, making it easier to breathe.
~*~
* The words Sara mutters to herself in the bar are from what's known as the Serenity Prayer.
Fandom: Prison Break
Characters: Sara Tancredi, Michael Scofield (cameos by several other characters)
Pairing: Michael/Sara
Length: 5,000 words
Rating: R
Summary: Claustrophobia comes in many forms. Spoilers for Season Four, including spoilers and speculation for the upcoming episode, #404, Eagles and Angels.
Author's Note:This is for scribblecat, who just happened to mention to me that she really wanted a particular kind of story using the roof top of the warehouse. I really intended to write something fluffy, but sadly for her, it turned into a serious kind of story that also contained spoilers, so even though this is for her, she can't read it until after #404 airs. Oops. I also may have tossed a tiny bit of Safe House-influenced canon into this one. Oops #2. No beta again, so please feel free to point out my mistakes.
~*~
Sara Tancredi is used to living alone.
She misses it.
Over the last few months, her personal boundaries have been tested on a daily basis, but never the way they’re being tested now. It’s strange to think there are times when she feels almost as claustrophobic now as she did during her time in the Company’s hands, but she does. The last time she’d shared her living space with this many people was during college, and Northwestern was nothing like this. Of course, she thinks wryly, there is a certain frat house quality in this place at times, just minus the beer.
Michael, ever the gentleman, had been quick to secure a small measure of privacy for her in the form of her aquatic sleeping quarters, but sleeping can only take up so much of every day. Sometimes, during the day, she feels as though the walls are pressing in on her, that there are too many people around her, filling the air with their voices and their feelings and the smell of their sweat and frustration. In contrast, her little boat smells of nothing more than her perfume and deodorant and laundered sheets, and there are days when she wishes she didn’t have to climb down that ladder.
The warehouse has one bathroom, one kitchen, two toilets and a small storage room containing all their medical supplies and toiletries. There is one huge room containing single eight bunk beds shoved against the walls, and the open living space that can feel as vast as the expanse of sky outside the heavy metal door or as cramped as a walk-in closet. No alcohol - something that leaves her relieved and resentful at the same time - but enough soda and snack food and frozen TV dinners to feed them for a month.
If they lived that long, of course.
During that first awkward communal dinner, Brad Bellick had looked at her expectantly across the kitchen, as if waiting for her to dish up. Clapping his hand on the other man’s beefy shoulder, Michael had steered him towards the huge freezer. “Sara may be the only woman here, Bradley,” he’d said flatly, “but that doesn’t make her your mother.”
Brad’s face had turned red, and he’d hastily stammered an apology, although whether he’d been apologising her or Michael, she wasn’t sure. Sara had given him a reassuring smile, just to cover her bases. Afterwards, sitting beside her at one end of the long table as they pick over their own reheated meals, Michael had gently nudged her knee with his. “I hope I wasn’t out of line earlier.”
She’d shaken her head, wondering how it’s possible to feel that chaste contact in every inch of her body. “A doctor’s first instinct is to nurture, I know, but I draw the line at being the only one prepared to work the microwave.”
He’d smiled, one well-shaped eyebrow lifting. “That sounds like the voice of experience talking.”
She’d chuckled, rifling through a compartment of peas with her fork. “Let’s just say I’ve lived with enough slobs to know that I’m never going down that road again.”
He’d suddenly seemed engrossed in doing the same, but then he’d darted her a faintly shy glance. “Have you lived with many people?”
She’d given him an amused look. “Men, you mean?”
If she hadn’t known better, she would have thought he’d been blushing. “Uh, yeah.”
“A few.” Ducking her head, she’d caught his eye, doing her best not to smile too widely. “What about you? How many people have you lived with?”
“Including Fox River?”
“No.”
His gaze had slid away from hers. “On a one to one basis, you mean?”
“That’s right.”
He’d glanced around the table, but everyone else was engrossed in their own thoughts. Finally, when he’d obviously realised there was no escape, he’d cleared his throat. “None.”
Her heart had twisted at his sheepish expression. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
He’d shrugged, then speared a piece of what she’d decided was chicken. Or maybe pork. “I’m past thirty,” he’d muttered, as though that should have been explanation enough, and perhaps it was.
“Maybe you’re just a late bloomer,” she’d suggested, letting her knee rest against his beneath the table, and again that hint of colour had risen up in his tanned face.
“Maybe.” She’d felt the hesitant touch of his hand on her knee, his fingertips tracing an unnameable shape on her skin through her jeans. “I’m pretty sure I know how to work a microwave, though.”
Their eyes had met, and the warmth humming beneath his touch had spread softly through her, down to her fingertips and toes and everywhere in between. “Well, that’s a very good start.”
“Hey, Michael?”
They’d turned in unison at the sound of Lincoln’s voice. “Roland thinks he’s found something.”
The hand on her knee had tightened, then relaxed. “Be right there.”
And so a pattern was set.
They all live together, frantically plotting and scheming for the answers that might one day give them back their lives, and in the quiet moments, she and Michael unconsciously gravitate towards each other. They talk hesitantly of the past and the present and the future, and not once do they manage to finish a conversation without being interrupted. Which is completely fine, she reminds herself, because they are in a middle of a war there and they’re both painfully aware of the bigger picture, but sometimes -
Sometimes, they need something to help them see past the bigger picture.
~*~
Bruce dies.
Bruce dies, and it's all her fault. The claustrophobia becomes unbearable to the point of wanting to peel away her skin, and she knows she has to get out. My fault my fault my fault my fault my fault my fault.
Railing at the four walls surrounding her, she grabs her purse, ignoring the startled glances from her fellow hackers as she stalks out of the warehouse. Michael isn’t there, he’s ensconced somewhere in a car with Lincoln and Mahone, doing a short stint of recon work, and later she will wonder if she would have still walked out if he’d been there to stop her.
Maybe, maybe not.
Because even if he'd been there, she would have still needed air. She would have still needed space. She would have still needed -
She needed a drink.
It doesn’t take her long to find a bar. Even less time to order a double scotch and throw it back, almost purring in the back of her throat as the alcohol explodes in the pit of her belly.
As she places the empty glass on the table in front of her, misery and self-loathing wells up inside her in equal doses. She doesn’t want Bruce to be dead. She doesn’t want to be here. She doesn’t want to do this. She wants so much to not feel anything but she doesn’t want to do this. She wants another drink. She doesn’t want to stumble and fall, not after everything she’s managed to survive. She doesn’t want to have to look Michael in the eye and tell him that, after everything they’ve already endured, she wasn’t strong enough to resist her demons.
She pushes the glass away with a jerk of her wrist, sitting back in her seat, struggling to control her suddenly erratic breathing. Dropping her head into her hands, she presses her fingertips hard against her temples, pulling up the words from the bottom of her soul, the words she both reveres and loathes. “God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change,” she mutters beneath her breath, the scotch on her tongue mingling with the pleading words, “courage to change the things I can, and wisdom to know the difference.”
She sits alone with the empty glass in front of her, saying the words over and over again, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. She wants very much to have another drink. She wants very much to drink enough to forget the fact that she doesn’t want to be here, getting drunk.
She doesn’t.
Because no matter how much alcohol she pours down her throat, Bruce will still be dead.
It's a painfully obvious and long-overdue epiphany, but she reaches for it gratefully, hugging it close.
Grabbing her purse, she makes her way back to the bar, pushing a ten dollar note across the polished surface to the middle-aged female bartender. “Thank you.” The woman smiles at her, then Sara is outside in the sunshine once more, her gaze narrowed against the sudden brightness. The buzz from the alcohol has faded, leaving her feeling wilted and small. Taking a deep breath, she begins to walk, slowly making her way back towards her temporary home. With each step, her conscious smarts a little more. She’d left without saying a word. She pauses on the curb as she waits for a car to pass, her heart sinking as she realises she’d also walked out without her cell phone.
It won’t take Michael long to learn about Bruce’s death. If she’s not back by the time that happens -
She starts to walk faster, belatedly realising how far she’d travelled in search of a bar that hadn’t looked like a dive. She suddenly feels very alone, and picks up her pace a little more. Sweat prickles her scalp, dampening the back of her neck and the hollow between her breasts, the midday sun and a growing panic conspiring to flood her body with an unpleasant heat that the breeze coming off the nearby bay does nothing to abate.
She notices him when she’s halfway back to the warehouse. It’s hard not to notice him. Standing on the boardwalk, he’s tall and broad-shouldered, his dark face and hands still against the backdrop of his impeccable black suit.
He’s watching her.
She thinks of Lincoln telling her the story of his arrest, of how he’d taken one look at that guy and known he was Company. At the time she’d thought she’d understood, but now she realises she hadn’t understood at all.
She understands now.
The heat beneath her skin vanishes, replaced by a chill that goes right down to her bones. She has no doubt that he’s armed, but surely there are too many people on the boardwalk for him to risk taking a shot at her. She could run, but to where? She can’t lead him back to the others, no matter how tempted she is to seek sanctuary there.
Without knowing exactly where she’s going, she begins to walk faster and faster, clutching her purse tightly to her side. Daring a glance over her shoulder, her blood chills further when she sees he’s following her, his stride unhurried yet urgent.
She starts to run.
Looking frantically over her shoulder as her feet pound on the pavement, her worst fears are confirmed, because he’s running too, his gait surprisingly agile for such a heavy-set man.
Fuck.
Panic rises up inside her, seizing her lungs and squeezing them hard, making it hard to breathe, but she keeps running. She can’t possibly stop to ask for help from any of the startled pedestrians she passes, because she knows all too well she’d simply be signing their death warrant.
She heads away from the warehouse, desperately trying to recall what she knows about this area. Remembering passing a strip of eateries and bars on the next block, she veers off to the right, plunging her way through a group of teenaged boys who greet her intrusion with shouts of laughter and ribald invitations. She leaves them in her wake, coming to another intersection, desperation clawing at her, her skin crawling with the knowledge her pursuer is still breathing down her neck.
A black SUV suddenly screeches to a halt in front of her, blocking her pursuer from her sight. The back door is flung open and she is looking at Michael’s panicked face. “Get in!”
Her pulse roaring in her ears, she flings herself into the backseat, falling across Michael’s lap as he slams the door shut behind her. She hears him say, "We've got her. I'll call you when we get clear," then the car jerks forward, roaring away from her would-be assailant, and Michael is quick to reach for her, pulling her up to sit beside him. She fumbles with her seatbelt, trying to understand how they managed to be in exactly the right place at the right time. “How did you find me?”
He puts his hand over her trembling fingers, helping her click the buckle into place. “There’s a spare ankle bracelet in your purse. Self helped us track it down.”
She stares at him, too numb to be outraged. “Did you put it there?”
Michael returns her gaze steadily. “Yes.”
“When?”
His gaze flicks towards the front seat, where Lincoln and Alexander Mahone are discussing the best route to take in order to shake off the Company agent, then back to her. “This morning, before I left.”
She looks away, her gaze dropping to the hands twisting in her lap. He’d been worried that something would happen while he was gone, and she’d immediately proved him right. “Bruce is dead,” she tells him, her voice shaking, and feels the touch of his hand on her shoulder.
“I know.” She looks back at him, and sees that his eyes are glittering with anger on her behalf. “I’m so sorry, Sara.”
She starts to shake her head, wanting to tell him it’s not his fault but hers, then his arm is around her shoulders, pulling her closer. Pressing her face against the solid warmth of his shoulder, she breathes him in, forcing back her tears, wanting to wait until she’s alone to give into her grief. Over her head, she hears them talking about the man who’d been following her, about how he must have learned they were in LA from Bruce. Every time they say says his name out loud, she feels Michael’s arm tighten around her in silent apology. No one speaks directly to her, and she’s glad.
When they reach the warehouse, Michael curls his hand around her arm, drawing her to one side. “Do you want to rest for a while?”
A surge of her old defensiveness washes over her, and the words are out of her mouth before she can stop them. “I only had one drink.”
“Okay,” he returns mildly, rubbing his hand up and down her back. “I just thought you might appreciate some time alone while I get in touch with Self.”
She swallows hard, trying to dislodge the sudden lump in her throat. Despite his calm demeanour, she knows her disappearing act had frightened him badly. That makes two of us, she thinks. “Okay.”
He hesitates, obviously torn between following Lincoln and Mahone to the large table that has become their centre of operations and being with her. “Unless you want some company?”
She shakes her head, her emotions too raw to word her answer as anything but a polite rejection. “Not right now.”
He nods, but she doesn’t imagine the disappointment that shines briefly in his eyes. “Sure.”
He comes to her an hour later, as if he knows exactly the moment that her tears have dried and she’s once again sitting staring into space, mentally lashing herself over and over again. She should have never called Bruce from Panama. She should never have given into his insistence that she at least tell him which state she was heading towards when they’d left Chicago. The list of all the things she should have never done grows longer and longer, until it stretches out before her, a never-ending litany of recrimination and anger that soon turns inward, making her feel as though she’ll never be able to draw an untainted breath again.
She hears the soft tread of his shoes on the metal ladder, then he’s there, looking at her with a tenderness that makes her want to weep. “Hey.”
“Hey.”
He steps onto the small boat, slowly making his way to where she’s sitting. He drops down beside her, his elbows resting on his knees, his hands clasped. “You okay?”
It’s a painfully rhetorical question, but she knows why he’s asked it. I’m here, when you want to talk, I’m here. He needs her to talk to him almost as much as she needs to keep from adding to his already overburdened shoulders. When she doesn't reply, he sighs heavily. “Why didn’t you call me?”
“I don’t know.” She’s been asking the same thing ever since she’d left that bar, trying to make sense of the mess that was her mind in the few minutes after she’d learned of Bruce’s death. “I guess I haven’t gotten used to the idea of being able to rely on someone yet.”
They’d both made a vow to be as honest as possible with each other, but she sees the wince that ripples across his face. “Why did you leave the warehouse?”
She lifts her hands, then drops them again, defeated by her own muddled reasoning. “I had to get out. I couldn’t breathe in here.”
He nods, as though he understands, and maybe he does. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here when you got the call.”
“Not your fault.” She puts her hand on his arm, no longer able to resist the comfort she knows being close to him will bring. The muscles tense beneath her touch, then he covers her hand with his, threading his long fingers through hers.
“It’s not yours either.”
“It is.” She shakes her head, knowing he’s talking about Bruce now, knowing he’s just telling her what he thinks she needs to hear. “It’s my fault he’s dead.”
“And it’s my fault you’re involved in this at all,” he says in a quiet, hollow voice that makes her heart twist. “So where do we go from here?”
They stare at each other for a long moment, and she sees the fear in his eyes. “We go forward,” she finally tells him. “Together.”
Relief swims in his eyes, then he takes an audible breath. “I apologise for not telling you about the ankle monitor in your purse."
His oddly formal phrasing makes her heart sink. A small part of her wants to fight him, to be angry at his high-handed intrusion of her privacy, but she knows the normal rules don't exactly apply at this particular point in their lives. "If you hadn't done it, I'd probably be dead by now."
His face pales, his hand tightening around hers. "I want you to promise me something.”
She knows what he’s going to ask of her. If he’d asked her this morning, perhaps she would have bristled, but not now. “What?”
“Promise me you won’t ever do that again.”
The lump in her throat is back, the size of a closed fist. “I promise.”
~*~
Later that night, long after the sun has set, he seeks her out again, finding her at the computer as she hovers behind Roland’s shoulder, looking for something to distract her from her thoughts. “Come with me?”
“Where are we going?”
He gives her a small smile. “Does it matter?”
She does her best to ignore Roland’s knowing smirk. “I guess not.”
He guides her to the back recesses of the warehouse, then through a metal door that leads to fire stairs winding upwards towards the roof. “When did you discover this?”
“This afternoon,” he says softly as he flicks on the torch she belatedly realises he’s carrying. “I wanted to check the entire building for any likely points of entry.”
Another hefty dose of guilt wells up inside her, but as if he knows she’s about to apologise again, he takes her hand and draws her towards the stairs. “Come on.”
The muscles in her thighs are burning by the time they reach the touch of the stairs, but then he unlocks and pushes open a heavy metal door and they’re suddenly on the roof top. “Oh, Michael-” The Port of Los Angeles stretches out below them, vast and teeming with evening activity, glittering lights dotting the inky expanse of water. The air around them is fresh and cool, and there’s not a single thing between them and the sky. “This is beautiful.”
“When I was up here earlier, I thought about what you’d said, how you felt as though you couldn’t breathe properly downstairs.” He gives her a shy smile that totally belies the fact he’d held her naked in his arms only two days ago. “I thought you might like the chance to get some fresh air.”
Her eyes are burning, and while she’d like to blame the sting of the breeze, she knows better. “Thank you.”
The next few minutes remind her that he is a man who likes to be prepared. He produces a worn but outwardly clean blanket, which he folds in half, then places in the doorway. There’s just enough room for the two of them to sit side by side, and she marvels at his foresight. Although they’re technically outside, they’re not visible from the street, and from where he’s sitting, she suspects he has a clear view of the road leading to the warehouse. Stretching her legs out beside his, she leans into him, enjoying the warmth of him against her as she gazes out towards the horizon.
“Now that’s what I call an ocean view.”
“Not bad,” he agrees, sliding his hand beneath her hair to stroke the back of her neck. “Pity about the neighbours, though.”
To her surprise, she finds herself chuckling as she leans into his touch. “What was your apartment like?”
His fingertips are brushing the curve of her neck now, sending a flurry of goosebumps across her skin. “I’ll have you know it was a loft.”
“Whatever, Scofield. What was it like?”
“It was-" He pauses, as if searching for the right word, “It was nice.”
“Nice?” She tilts back her head to look at him. “That’s it?”
There’s a second pause, longer this time. “It had a balcony and I could see the river from almost every room.” He smiles at her. “I liked that.”
“I wish I’d seen it.”
He smiles at the wistfulness in her voice. “So do I.”
Bowing his head, he presses a kiss to her shoulder, his lips warm against the skin bared by the rounded neckline of her shirt. She closes her eyes, not bothering to swallow her sigh. His hand skims down the length of her spine, finding the hem of her shirt and the bare skin beneath in one smooth caress. “Maybe, when all this is over, I could take you there. I’m sure the new owner won’t mind.”
His fingertips brush one of her healed scars, and she can’t control her reaction. She arches away from his touch, her eyes still tightly closed, then she feels his other hand on her cheek, turning her face to his. “Sara.”
She opens her eyes to find him gazing at her with a gentle longing that makes her pulse spike. “I’m sorry.” She lifts her hand, wrapping her fingers around his wrist. "It's not you, okay? It's nothing you're doing wrong, believe me."
"I know." One hand still cupping her face, he brushes his fingers over one scar, then another, then another, his touch as light as a down feather, his gaze locked with hers. “One day, they’ll be nothing more than faded marks on your skin.”
Her throat is tight, filled with all the words that she’s not brave enough to say. She still hasn’t told him about her time with the dark-haired woman she now knows as Gretchen. All he knows is that it’s something she’s afraid she’ll never be able to forget. “I hope so.”
When he finally kisses her, she sighs again, her breath mingling with his. The hand on her back grows still as she kisses him back, sliding her tongue between his lips to taste the dark spiciness of his mouth. A low groan rumbles deep in his throat, then his arms are sliding around her and tugging her closer, their kiss swiftly becoming something alive and hungry. Desire twists through her belly, and she turns in his arms, trying to keep her balance as she shifts closer, wanting no space between them, wanting to feel the solid heat of him against her, anchoring her.
Somehow she ends up in his lap, her knees pressing hard into the thin blanket. One of his hand is threaded tightly through her hair, holding her steady as he devours her mouth with his, the other hand - oh, God, his other hand - has glided up her ribcage to cup her breast. Her spine arches as she leans into his touch, her nipple rising up tight and hard against his palm. Arousal is sparking along every single nerve-ending, setting her alight, and she knows there is more than one way to blot out grief.
He murmurs her name against her jaw, his free hand sliding down to her hips, then lower to cup her bottom, urging her closer, making her gasp. He’s hard against her, and the feel of him almost has her shaking with an urgent need to go further, go faster, just go until there’s nothing between them and he’s inside her and there's nothing else in her head but how he makes her feel. “I love you.”
His lips graze her ear, his stubbled chin rough against her throat, his voice thick with a tempered impatience as he breathes the words. “I love you, too.”
His cell phone rings just as he reaches for the button of her jeans, and she realises she’s been waiting to be interrupted ever since they started climbing the stairs. Swearing unsteadily beneath his breath, he presses his forehead against hers for a few seconds, his chest heaving as though he’s just run a marathon, then he reaches for the phone he’d placed so carefully beside him only a few moments earlier. “Yes?” He lifts his hand to his temple, massaging his forehead with a very different kind of impatience. “We’re on the roof. We’ll be down in a moment.”
He flips the phone shut and gives her a look that is pure frustration, if tinged with a hint of wry humour. “I guess five minutes of privacy was a little too much to hope for.”
Putting her hands on his shoulders, she dips her head to kiss him softly, catching his bottom lip between hers. Drawing back, she smiles. “And here I was thinking you’d be good for at least ten minutes this time around.”
“You talk the talk, Doctor Tancredi,” he murmurs as she scrambles to her feet and dusts off the knees of her jeans. “I just hope you can walk the walk when the time comes.”
Knowing the final seconds of their time alone are dissolving around them, she throws back a challenge of her own, desperately wanting to hang onto the way she feels when she’s with him like this. “When the time comes, Scofield, I’m not planning on doing any walking.”
His answering grin is decidedly wolfish, then he shuts the heavy metal behind them, shutting out the night sky with a sharp clang. The darkness rises up around them, his hand finding hers as the beam of the flashlight cuts into the blackness. “Mahone and Linc have picked up something that could lead us to the third cardholder.”
And just like that, they’re back in the game, this ridiculous, insidious game of fighting for their lives. She gives herself a few seconds to think longingly of the clear night sky on the other side of the door, then she nods. “Good.”
They make their way down the fire stairs, following the beam of torchlight. When they reach the bottom of the stairs, Michael reaches for the fire escape door, then turns to her instead, pulling her into a gentle embrace. “We’ll have much longer than ten minutes," he tells her with a sudden fierceness, his arms tightening around her. "I promise you.”
She buries her face in the crook of his neck, inhaling the comforting scent of his skin. She knows he’s not talking about sex now. He’s talking about the rest of their lives, and the thought both thrills and terrifies her. She wants it so badly, it seems almost wrong to say the words out loud, as if by keeping silent, she won't jinx it. “I hope so.”
He kisses her one last time, his lips soft and warm against hers, then pushes open the door, bringing them both back into the harsh light of the warehouse. As they pass her sleeping quarters, he gives her a questioning look, as though asking her if she wants to retire rather than joining him. She shakes her head. “I’m okay.”
“Good.” His smile is a relieved one, and she thinks of the promise he’d extracted from her earlier that day. She’s not the only one who feels more anchored when they’re together.
They rejoin the others, slipping into the empty spaces at the long table. She soon realises that Bruce's death is now common knowledge. One by one the men dart hesitantly sympathetic looks in her direction, and she acknowledges each one with a nod of thanks. If any of them resent her unplanned outing earlier today - and she's quite sure some of them do - she doesn't see it in their faces.
The conversation immediately kicks into high gear, the familiar verbal soundtrack of her life. As she listens to the sound of Michael's voice, soothing despite the subject matter, she forces herself to think of Bruce as she'd last seen him, smiling and pleased to see her reunited with Michael. She thinks of her father, gathering her in his arms in her tiny kitchen, telling her he was going to make everything okay. She thinks of Michael, finding a way to bring her beneath the open sky, his hand tracing the ghostly reminders of her pain on her skin, his eyes and his touch telling her that he understood her need to escape.
The air around her is thick with anticipation and frustration and stale smell of reheated food, but the fresh scent of the night air is still with her, making it easier to breathe.
~*~
* The words Sara mutters to herself in the bar are from what's known as the Serenity Prayer.