The Right Road - Chapter Nine + Epilogue
Title: The Right Road (9/9 + EPILOGUE)
Fandom: Prison Break
Pairing: Michael Scofield/Sara Tancredi
Characters: Michael Scofield, Sara Tancredi, Lincoln Burrows, Veronica Donovan, Frank Tancredi, various original characters
Rating: NC-17
Genre: AU, Non-Epilogue-Compliant, Alternate Reality
Length: 5,630 words
Summary: One single decision can sometimes change the world. Lincoln didn't go into that garage, and he didn't end up on Death Row. Michael didn't rob that bank, and he never stepped foot inside Fox River. Sara never fell in love with an inmate, and she locked the infirmary door every single night. If everything was different, would anything stay the same?
Author's Note:This story has evolved from an old plotbunny involving a chance meeting in the most ordinary of places, and was inspired by THESE WORDS OF WISDOM from some guy called Wentworth Miller. Huge thanks to linzi20 for the impromptu beta (any mistakes that remain are all mine) and to scribblecat, who has donated a huge amount of her time and energy to encouraging me to keep forging ahead with this story. *squishes them both* I may have also borrowed a quote or two from The Simpsons in this chapter.
~*~
On the journey from the coffee shop to her apartment, the conversation flows relatively easily, but every single word he utters is light years away from what he actually wants to say to her. Instead of blurting out that he’d be happy to see her every single day for quite a long time, he answers her cheery questions about television and music and asks some questions of his own. He quickly discovers that their tastes aren’t a perfect match but that doesn’t matter in the slightest. Despite his calling, he’s always been a little wary of perfect symmetry, at least when it comes to people.
When they finally reach her street, she points out her apartment block. The parking gods smile on him once more - or perhaps not, he thinks, given that a park further from her door would have allowed him more time with her - and he’s soon switching off the engine with an undeniably nervous flick of his fingers. “May I walk you to the door?”
She hesitates for the briefest of seconds, sending his hopes plummeting, then she smiles. “Sure.”
Hope, like the proverbial phoenix, recovers quickly. He hastily opens his door, but she’s already climbing out of the car by the time he reaches her side of the vehicle, gifting him with a quick glimpse of shapely knees and a discreet but distracting hint of cleavage. Putting his hand flat on the hood of his car, he takes a deep breath and counts to ten.
She waits while he shuts the car door behind her, then gives him another smile. “Thank you again for driving me home.”
He smiles, controlling the urge to confess he would have driven her up and down the length of Illinois if it meant he’d have her to himself for another few hours. He consoles himself with the fact that his offer to drive her home stemmed from more than just his wish to spend more time in her company. He has no doubt she’s an extremely capable person, but he really didn’t want to put her into an anonymous taxi at three o’clock in the morning. “My pleasure.”
Her gaze locks with his and, for a few timeless seconds, he sees indecision in her eyes. “Uh, I’m just here,” she murmurs, her gaze finally dropping as she waves one slender arm towards the apartment block to their right.
He’s never felt like dragging his feet more. The heat of the previous day has faded to an agreeable predawn cool, and the air is spiked with a heady floral scent wafting from a massive jasmine bush planted in front of the far wall of her apartment complex. Neither of these sensory niceties, however, can complete with the simple pleasure of walking beside her.
Sara crosses her arms as they walk, her hands tucked into the crook of each elbow, her long legs matching his stride easily. When her right foot falters on a rough patch of concrete footpath a few seconds later, it’s suddenly the most natural thing in the world for him to lift his hand and gently take her arm. She gives him a quick smile of thanks, and he tries - and fails utterly - not to wonder if the rest of her skin is as soft as the warm flesh beneath his palm.
She doesn’t lean into him, but she doesn’t pull away either, and the time it takes to cover the distance to the front door of her apartment block is painfully short. When they reach the door, he forces himself to release his gentle grip on her arm. She doesn’t look at him as she reaches for the clutch purse that’s been tucked under her other arm, and her expression is difficult to read. The metal click of her purse clasp is oddly loud in the stillness surrounding them, then she clears her throat lightly. “I had a really good time tonight.”
He hears the nervous tremor darting through her voice, and he knows - God, he hopes he knows - that whatever is happening here between them, it’s entirely mutual. “Me too.” He leans against the wall, determined not to leave until he’s extracted the promise of another date, or at least her number; anything that means that this won’t be the first and last time he sees her. He watches her as she delves into her open purse, obviously looking for her house keys, then makes a decision that will either be the best or the worst one he’s ever made. “I suppose you’ll be going to the Governor’s house next weekend for the usual 4th July fireworks shindig.”
Her mouth curve in a smile that makes him want to taste what’s left of her faded lipstick. “Not necessarily.” Putting the search for her keys on hold, she lifts her head and gives him a disconcertingly steady look. “Why do you ask?”
“My brother and his girlfriend are having a barbecue on Saturday.” Stop over-thinking. Just do it. He smiles at her. “Would you like to come?”
Her eyes widen, but she’s smiling, too. “Are you asking me on a date?”
Her response is not that of a woman who dislikes the idea of going on a date with him, and he doesn’t bother hiding his grin. “Yes.”
Her smile widens, her tone becoming faintly teasing. “You don’t waste any time, do you?”
“We’ve lived in the same city for thirty years and I’ve only just met you.” He sees the impact of his simple words in her eyes, and thinks he could really get used to being this open and straightforward with her. “I’m just trying to make up for lost time.”
“I would love to come,” she says softly, quickly, almost before he’s finished speaking, “but first I have to tell you something.” Her hands shift their grip on her purse, flexing and relaxing over and over again. “Something I didn’t mention tonight because -” She breaks off, her gaze sliding away from his, her pale throat working as she swallows hard. After a few endless seconds, she takes a deep breath and looks him in the eye once more. “I was an addict four years ago, and I’m an addict now.” Her gaze searches his face worriedly, as if afraid of what she might see there. “I’m in recovery now and I’ve been clean for four years come Tuesday, but I will always be an addict.”
A rush of tender pride washes over him, the force of it taking him by surprise. He’s lost count of the number of addicts he’s met and mentored during his time at the shelter, but it seems things are very different when you’re violently attracted to the recovering addict in question. He smiles at her, giving her the only answer that rings true to him. “Congratulations.”
She stares at him, as though confused by his reaction. No longer caring that he’s probably grinning like an idiot, he gently tugs her purse from her hands, places it carefully on the cement beside his feet, then moves those feet a few steps closer to hers. “That makes Tuesday your fourth anniversary, right?”
She frowns as she turns to face him, her hands fluttering in the empty air between them, her eyes searching his. “Don’t you want to know why I checked into rehab?”
“Not if you don’t feel ready to tell me.” Perhaps he’s being naive, but it’s the truth. She’s already revealed far more than she realises, and that’s enough for him. His pulse thrumming at the back of his throat, he does something he never thought he’d be doing when he arrived at the church yesterday afternoon. Lifting his hand to her face, he lets his palm rest against her cheek, his fingertips flirting with the delicate curve of her ear. “When you are ready, I’ll be all ears.”
She’s not smiling now, but that’s okay, because there’s a heat in her eyes that makes his whole body tighten. Beneath the subtle scent of her perfume, he can smell her skin and her hair, sweet and soft. His hand is still cupping her face, the glittering drop of her earring brushing against his fingers, her almost inaudible rush of breath as she parts her lips as loud as a clanging bell inside his whirring thoughts. He sees and hears and feels a hundred different things as he waits, an exquisite moment of anticipation, then he bows his head and touches his mouth to hers.
Her lips seem to soften beneath his, another sigh letting him feel the warmth of her breath. He brushes his mouth against hers a second time, this time letting his bottom lip catch hers in a fleeting caress that sends an urgent rush of heat straight to his groin. With a supreme effort, he lifts his head and draws away, wanting to see her face, praying that he hasn’t overstepped this particular line way too soon.
To his utter relief, she looks exactly how he feels; dazed, but in the best way imaginable. Her eyes lock with his as she lifts her hand to his heart, her fingertips five points of heat as they slide across his shirt until her palm is flat against his chest. He’s conscious of the rise and fall of his body beneath her hand, his already quickened breathing snagging in his lungs when she wraps her hand around his tie, her knuckles pressing lightly against his sternum. He looks at her, silently urging her to put him out of this delicious misery, and a tiny smile touches the corner of her mouth as she lifts her face to his.
Their first kiss, while chaste, had made his pulse quicken. This kiss makes him want to sink to the ground and wrap himself around her until she is arching and trembling in his arms. Somewhere, amidst the taste and feel of her, he knows this is neither the time nor the place, so he does the next best thing. Leaning back against the wall behind him, he tugs her closer, letting the weight of her body press him against the rough brickwork.
Her breasts are high and full against his chest, her hips twitching maddeningly as she shifts her weight, and his core body temperature leaps right off the scale. Just when he thinks this is the most erotic embrace he’s ever experienced, he feels the twin sensation of her hand on his hip and the tip of her tongue brushing against his. He hears himself make a choked noise that feels as though it’s come straight from his solar plexus, then they’re kissing frantically, hard and deep, his hands tight on her hips, a breathless dance of hunger and need and discovery.
I knew it. The words flash through the blurred tangle of his thoughts, a dazed realisation. When he slides his knee between hers, she immediately shifts closer, moulding her body to his, and the press of her belly against his aching erection is almost enough to make him forget the security light above their heads. When he feels the nip of her teeth on his bottom lip, he’s tempted to reach up and unscrew the damned light bulb altogether.
He kisses her until he feels himself approaching zero, the almost painful clamouring of his body becoming more and more insistent. He wants so much more - he wants everything - but for tonight, for now, this kiss is enough.
He reluctantly lifts his head, his lips feeling as shaky as his legs, to find her gazing at him as though she can’t quite believe what’s just happened. Thinking he knows exactly how she feels, he exhales loudly before bowing his head to hers once more. This time, though, he simply rests his forehead against hers, wanting to be as close to her as possible without actually kissing her. “I’m going to need to call you several times between now and next Saturday,” he says softly, trying out the words gingerly on his tingling tongue. His hands are still gripping her hips, holding her close enough for her to realise his body is still hoping for a different outcome to the evening, but she doesn’t seem to mind.
Her smile is evident in her voice. “Is that right?”
“Mmmm.” He lifts his head, smiling as he gives into yet another temptation, this time exploring the smooth curve of her throat and shoulder as he brushes aside several wayward tendrils of dark auburn hair. If he touched his thumb to the tender spot beneath her jaw, he thinks, would her pulse be racing as quickly as his? “But that could prove difficult if I don’t have your number.”
She leans back, smiling, the arch of her spine pressing her hips against his in a very interest way. “I don’t have a pen,” she says lightly as she lifts one hand to his face and rubs her thumb across his mouth. Her lipstick has all but vanished, and he doesn’t have to try too hard to imagine where it might have gone.
“Just tell me.” If there’s one thing he knows at this moment in time, it’s that he’s got a good head for numbers. “I’ll remember it.”
A few seconds later, the words be careful what you wish for flutter through his head. Her perfume teases his senses as she puts her lips to his ear, the feel of her warm breath on his heated skin sending goosebumps skittering down his spine with every new number she utters. As though realising the effect she’s having on him, she tells him her number twice, and by the time she’s finished, he knows he’ll never be able to call her without blushing. Finally, she takes a small step backwards, and his whole body immediately protests the lack of her. “You got that?”
God. “Yes.” He closes his eyes, then moves away from the brick wall, his hand momentarily tightening on her hip as he turns her towards the door. “You’d better go in.” Purse, he thinks dazedly. Keys. Blinking, he hurriedly picks up her purse, finds her keys, and drops both items into her waiting hands. Then he steps back, giving her space to open the door and himself some badly needed room to cool down. To his relief - and utter disappointment - she’s quick to open the metal security door, holding it ajar as she turns to face him with a smile. “If you do happen to forget the number-”
He succumbs to the need to touch her one last time, sliding his palm along the length of her arm, her skin smooth beneath the sweep of his fingertips. “I won’t.”
To his surprise, she grabs his hand, entwining her fingers with his. “If you do, though?” Her dark gaze seems to burn into his. “I’m in the book.”
Obeying an impulse stronger than any amount of willpower he’s ever possessed, he lifts their clasped hands to his mouth, pressing a long kiss to the back of her hand, tasting the salt of her skin on his tongue. Time to go. “Goodnight, Sara.”
It’s after four o’clock in the morning, and he suspects she’s beyond weary, but her eyes are bright with mischief as she smiles at him. “Goodnight, Phineas.”
Much later, he will wonder if this was the moment he decided she was the perfect woman for him, but right now, all he knows is that he wants to sweep her up in his arms and whisk her away in his car to install her in his apartment and his bed and his life. Which could, he thinks as he gives himself a mental shake, be classified as rushing things. But God, he wants to rush. “I’ll call you.”
Her eyes never leaving his, she rests her head against the open door, her voice infused with a quiet optimism that makes his chest tighten. “I hope so.”
He has to leave, but he can’t bring himself to turn his back on her. Wanting to drink in the sight of her for as long as possible, he starts to back away from her, earning himself a smile in the process. He knows ten paces will bring him to the cobbled pathway that will take him to the sidewalk, allowing him the luxury of enjoying her smile as she watches him. When his right heel lands on the edge of the pathway, he lifts his hand and waves, a gesture that manages to feel both absurd and exactly right.
She waves back, adding a dimpled smile of farewell into the bargain. He turns to walk down the path, then gives into the temptation to sneak one last look. He sees her slip inside, then hears the click of the door being locked behind her. He pauses, his gaze sweeping over the apartment complex as he studies the darkened windows, then turns on his heel, silently berating himself. You’re not a creepy stalker type, remember?
He walks slowly back to his car, feeling as though it’s been hours since he left it. Patting down his pockets, he finds only his car keys and wallet. Any hopes of retracing his steps to the apartment block behind him are dashed when he spies his cell phone sitting on the driver’s seat where he’d left it in his haste to open Sara’s door. As he picks it up to toss it onto the passenger seat, its screen comes to life, showing a new incoming message. His heart does a quick two-step as his brain jumps to the most pleasant assumption, then he remembers he didn’t give Sara his number. Shaking his head at his own foolishness, he quickly checks his inbox before he starts the ignition. The text message is from Lincoln, sent several hours earlier when Michael still had the phone set to silent. It would have been around the time he and Sara were ordering their first coffee, he realises.
How was wedding? Boring as batshit?
Michael chuckles beneath his breath. Tossing the phone onto the seat beside him, he starts the engine, then takes one last look at the apartment complex he’s just left. There are two lights glowing in two adjoining windows in the southeast corner, quite possibly a bedroom and a bathroom. He smiles, thinking she’d probably have a pretty impressive view from that corner apartment.
Hastily assuring himself there’s a difference between being a creepy stalker and finding out these things by accident, he begins the five minute journey to his own apartment. The traffic is minimal, the usual assortment of shift-workers and taxis, providing little to distract him from mentally replaying the evenings events on a loop in his head. He thinks about their words, her smile, her eyes, her laugh. Mostly, though, he thinks about their kiss. After five minutes of undeniably pleasant mental torture, it’s almost a relief to turn into his street.
When he’s parked his car in its usual space and switched off the engine, Michael picks up his cell phone and reads his brother’s text message again. He grins, his fingers flying over the keypad as he types a reply. His grin widens as he presses send, knowing that both the obscurity of his reply and the time it was sent will no doubt irritate his curious brother nicely.
Best wedding ever.
~*~
If he was asked to define Hell on Earth at this exact moment, Michael Scofield thinks, he would be tempted to simply wave a weary hand at his current situation. Then again, he’s thought he was going to die at least three times in the last ten minutes, so maybe he’s not the best one to judge.
Sweats drips into his eyes, making them sting, and each pounding step sends a quiver of agony through his calf muscles. As the footsteps over his shoulder grow closer and closer, he sucks in another desperate lungful of oxygen, pushing himself even harder, because he has no intention of letting his tormentor win this particular battle.
Five minutes later, he’s bent over at the waist, his hands on his hips, gulping in as much air as his lungs will hold. The hearty slap on the back nearly knocks him off-balance, but the teasing jibe that follows is enough to make him pull himself upright.
“Man, you’d better be in shape by the time number two arrives, or you’ll never survive.”
Michael swipes his arm across his face, wiping the sweat from his eyes. “Is that the voice of experience talking, or are you just being a pain in the ass?”
His brother grins, teeth flashing white in his tanned face. “Little from column A, little from column B.” He flicks his wrist, and a small bottle of water arcs through the air between them. “Vee does most of the running after our two and she does it without breaking a sweat.” He gives a good-natured roll of the eyes. “And you know how she is about exercising on purpose.”
Michael chuckles as he catches the bottle of water, relieved that his straining lungs still seem to be working properly. Veronica’s steadfast refusal to step foot inside her husband’s gym unless it’s to check the books and read over the staff’s employment contracts has always amused him, but it seems to work for them. “Newborns can’t run,” he points out mildly, and Lincoln gives him a look of pure condescension.
“You’ll see,” his brother says in a cheerfully ominous voice. “You guys still coming to our place next Sunday?”
“That depends.” Tilting back his head, he drains half the bottle in a few gulps, then grins at his brother. “Have you learned to cook hamburgers without burning the crap out of them yet?”
The insult, as always, rolls straight off Lincoln’s shoulders. “One man’s charcoal is another man’s well-done, bro.”
“We’ll be there,” Michael tells him as they begin to trudge back towards where they’d parked their cars. “We’ll be putting in the usual appearance at the Executive Mansion on Saturday night for the fireworks, but Sunday is all yours.”
It takes his brother a moment to reply - his mind is obviously still focused on the workout they’ve just done, one finger pressed against the pulse beneath his jaw, his gaze intent on his watch - but eventually he tosses Michael an openly curious glance. “How are things between you and old Frank these days?”
Michael takes a moment to consider the question. The road to forging a decent relationship with Frank Tancredi over the last three years has been a bumpy one, to say the least. Given the first stumbling block was Sara falling pregnant three months into their relationship, Michael decided long ago that things could only improve from there. “Not too bad.”
Lincoln smirks. “I guess seeing as you’ve knocked up his daughter within the confines of wedlock this time around -”
Michael might be tempted to be insulted, but as usual, his brother has pretty much hit the nail on the head. Knowing it’s easier to join them than beat them when it comes to Lincoln, he grins at him. “Yeah, we’re hoping that little fact might even make up for getting married on a beach instead of in St Paul’s cathedral.”
“I wouldn’t hold your breath.” His brother laughs out loud, the sound almost startling in the pre-dawn tranquillity around them. “Vee’s father might be a drunken bum, but at least he didn’t give a damn about the wheres and whos when we got hitched.”
Michael retrieves his car keys from the pocket of his sweats. “I thought he was going to AA?”
“When it suits him.” He shrugs. “It’s like Sara told Vee, it’s not going to work until he actually wants to quit boozing. Until then, he’s just going for the free cookies and coffee.” He knocks his knuckles on the hood of Michael’s SUV. “How’s it running?”
“Pretty good,” Michael says with a grin, reaching up to tap his fingers on the roof of the car he’d bought the day they’d discovered Sara was pregnant, trading in the Audi without a second’s hesitation.
Lincoln eyes the keys in his brother’s hand, a familiar smirk playing about his lips. “Just as well, man. Embarrassing to drive an Audi with such a dorky key ring.”
Michael spins his car keys around on his index finger, making the small plastic space ship fly through the air. “You’re just jealous you don’t have one.”
“That’ll be the day.” His brother rolls his eyes as he trudges the short distance to his own car. “When did she give you that thing, on your first date?”
“Third date,” Michael corrects him, not bothering to suppress what he suspects is a goofy smile. It was three years ago, but the memory of Sara presenting him with the Millennium Falcon key ring she’d found on eBay is still as sharp as the day it happened. Of course, the key ring hadn’t been the only thing she’d given him that day -
“Michael!”
Startled, he looks across to see Lincoln staring at him, his hands on his hips. “Uh, sorry, what?”
“I said I’ll see you on Sunday.” His brother shakes his head, looking more amused than annoyed. “Bring beer.”
Michael rolls his own eyes. As if he’d turn up to a barbecue at Lincoln’s without beer. He’s not sure he’d be let in the front door, only brother or not. “Say hi to Vee for me.”
Home is only a fifteen minute drive, and the house is quiet and still when he lets himself in the front door. He’d initially resisted Lincoln’s suggestion of an especially early run this morning, but now he’s glad. The weekend stretches out before him, free and clear, two whole days to spend with the two people he likes most in the world.
He eases off his running shoes inside the door, and pads through the house, his sock-clad feet silent on the wooden floorboards. As he gently places his wallet and car keys on the dining room table, he looks - as he always does - at the framed photograph sitting on top of the bookcase and, as always, it makes him smile. The silver frame itself is nondescript, surrounding a candid photograph taken three years ago. He doesn’t have to look at the back of the photograph to remember the note scribbled there; he’s long learned it by heart.
Dear Sara, the honeymoon was wonderful! We must catch up soon, but I was just going through the candids that the official photographer took during the reception and found this one. Thought you might like it as a souvenir of our special day. Hope you got his number! Love Bec xoxox
In the photograph, he and Sara are sitting at his table at the wedding reception. Sara is talking, her hands curved in the air between them as if she’s making a particularly emphatic point. He’s gazing at her, apparently completely oblivious to everything else around him. Michael smiles as he straightens the frame. His brother might say that nothing much has changed since then, but there is one little difference.
He stops at the first bedroom off the hallway, holding his breath as he silently opens the door. To his relief, Christopher is still asleep, his normally frenetic motion interrupted by slumber, his light brown hair clipped in a new haircut that reminds Michael very much of LJ as a child. Pulling the door shut with exaggerated care, he walks silently to the main bathroom to take a very quick shower. He would very much like to take advantage of the fact that their son is still asleep, but he doesn’t think his wife would appreciate the earthiness of his post-running glow.
Wrapping a towel around his waist, he dumps his running gear into the laundry basket, then eases open the door to the master bedroom. Sara is still asleep too, her arms wrapped around one of his pillows, her bright red hair a vivid tumble against the green sheets. As he drops the damp towel onto the floor (mental note, he thinks, pick up towel before she sees it) and slides into bed beside her, she shifts restlessly, then rolls onto her side to face him. “How was your run?” Her voice is thick with sleep, but her smile is as warm as the sunshine beginning to creep through the wooden blind at their window.
“Brutal.”
She chuckles under her breath, curling her arm around his waist as he stretches out beside her. “How’s your brother?”
“Annoying.” Wrapping his arm around her, he pulls her closer, his body instantly coming alive at the feel of her against him. She smells of soap and sleep and Sara, and he wants nothing more than to kiss her from her throat to her toes and everywhere in between.
She smiles against the curve of his bare shoulder, apparently oblivious to his increasingly lurid thoughts. “What time are they expecting us on Sunday?”
“Uh, he didn’t say.”
“Well, they’ve held a 4th July barbecue every year since I met you, so I guess the usual time will be fine.” She yawns softly, arching her back as she stretches her legs, her feet brushing against his. Her hand slides from his chest to his belly, then a little lower, then stops. “Um, Michael?”
He closes his eyes, giving himself over to the simple pleasure of her touch. “Hmmmm?”
She trails her fingertips up his bare thigh, then draws a teasing circle around his groin. “You’re not wearing any clothes.”
“I took a shower,” he manages to say, his whole body tightening with anticipation of her next touch.
“Christopher is sound asleep, I’m awake and you’re not wearing any clothes.” Her voice humming with quiet laughter, she wraps her hand around him, making him suck in a sharp breath and dig his heels into the mattress. “Can you do the math here, or do I have to be pushy about this?”
Letting out his breath in a rush, he rolls onto his side, pushing one leg between hers as he peels up her sleeveless pyjama top with one hand. “I’m very good at math,” he tells her with a smile.
Her pyjamas are soon lost in the bedclothes, her arms sliding around his neck as he reaches for her. Her breasts are fuller now, filling his hands as he bends his head to kiss each one in turn. Her fingers dig into his shoulders with each new scrape of his teeth and touch of his tongue, her body shifting restlessly beneath his, her breath coming faster, louder. When she arches her back, exhaling a sigh of pleasure as she tilts back her head, he needs no further encouragement. He scrapes his morning beard against her throat, tasting the goosebumps that rise up on her skin, then settles himself in the cradle of her thighs. “And how are we feeling this morning, Doctor Tancredi?”
“Pretty good,” she murmurs, tightening his legs around him. “And you?”
He closes his eyes as he sinks into her in a slow slide of heat and flesh, a groan rumbling in his throat as her hips instantly rise to meet his, each languid thrust making him see stars behind his eyelids. “Great. Good. Couldn’t be better. Oh, God, Sara-”
She kisses him, swallowing his groan of delight, her fingers pressing deep into the muscles of his back. Her skin is already flushed, the tight buds of her nipples brushing against his bare chest, her body slick and hot around his. It’s always been good between them, right from the very first time, but pregnancy seems to agree with her in more ways than one, and he is eternally grateful.
She buries her face against his shoulder when she comes, shuddering beneath him with a muffled cry, beating him to the finish line by mere seconds. He slumps over her, feeling as though his entire skeletal system has been replaced with warm jello, his brain with melted Playdough. And that thought alone, he decides wryly as Sara strokes his damp back, is a sure sign he now thinks like a parent.
It’s also a reminder there is one person he hasn’t checked on this morning. Wrapping one arm around her hips, he slides downward until his cheek is resting on the swell of her stomach. “Good morning in there.” He kisses Sara’s navel, then presses his ear against the high curve of her belly. “Hey, I can hear the ocean.”
“Idiot,” his wife chuckles, her fingers snaking pathways through his cropped hair as the unmistakable sounds of their firstborn waking up start to filter underneath their bedroom door. “It’s your turn, Scofield.”
Feigning a weary sigh, he disentangles himself. “A man works five days a week, you’d think he’d be allowed a little more shuteye on a Saturday morning.”
She pinches him somewhere very interesting, halting his efforts to leave their rumpled bed. “Sure, but only if his wife is a lady of leisure.”
Between working as a counsellor at their local NA center and looking after one and a half children, he’s pretty sure she doesn’t qualify for that particular title. “Curse your legal mumbo jumbo.”
Having hastily donned a pair of boxers, he pauses at the door, turning to study her. The forest green sheets reveal far more skin than they conceal, the contrast of her bright hair against them making him think of mermaids and oceans and bright June sunshine outside a gothic cathedral. She stretches languidly, her arms raised high above her head, then catches his eye. She smiles, her dark gaze glowing with lazy satisfaction. “Something wrong?”
He grins. “Not a thing.”
~*~
Fandom: Prison Break
Pairing: Michael Scofield/Sara Tancredi
Characters: Michael Scofield, Sara Tancredi, Lincoln Burrows, Veronica Donovan, Frank Tancredi, various original characters
Rating: NC-17
Genre: AU, Non-Epilogue-Compliant, Alternate Reality
Length: 5,630 words
Summary: One single decision can sometimes change the world. Lincoln didn't go into that garage, and he didn't end up on Death Row. Michael didn't rob that bank, and he never stepped foot inside Fox River. Sara never fell in love with an inmate, and she locked the infirmary door every single night. If everything was different, would anything stay the same?
Author's Note:This story has evolved from an old plotbunny involving a chance meeting in the most ordinary of places, and was inspired by THESE WORDS OF WISDOM from some guy called Wentworth Miller. Huge thanks to linzi20 for the impromptu beta (any mistakes that remain are all mine) and to scribblecat, who has donated a huge amount of her time and energy to encouraging me to keep forging ahead with this story. *squishes them both* I may have also borrowed a quote or two from The Simpsons in this chapter.
~*~
On the journey from the coffee shop to her apartment, the conversation flows relatively easily, but every single word he utters is light years away from what he actually wants to say to her. Instead of blurting out that he’d be happy to see her every single day for quite a long time, he answers her cheery questions about television and music and asks some questions of his own. He quickly discovers that their tastes aren’t a perfect match but that doesn’t matter in the slightest. Despite his calling, he’s always been a little wary of perfect symmetry, at least when it comes to people.
When they finally reach her street, she points out her apartment block. The parking gods smile on him once more - or perhaps not, he thinks, given that a park further from her door would have allowed him more time with her - and he’s soon switching off the engine with an undeniably nervous flick of his fingers. “May I walk you to the door?”
She hesitates for the briefest of seconds, sending his hopes plummeting, then she smiles. “Sure.”
Hope, like the proverbial phoenix, recovers quickly. He hastily opens his door, but she’s already climbing out of the car by the time he reaches her side of the vehicle, gifting him with a quick glimpse of shapely knees and a discreet but distracting hint of cleavage. Putting his hand flat on the hood of his car, he takes a deep breath and counts to ten.
She waits while he shuts the car door behind her, then gives him another smile. “Thank you again for driving me home.”
He smiles, controlling the urge to confess he would have driven her up and down the length of Illinois if it meant he’d have her to himself for another few hours. He consoles himself with the fact that his offer to drive her home stemmed from more than just his wish to spend more time in her company. He has no doubt she’s an extremely capable person, but he really didn’t want to put her into an anonymous taxi at three o’clock in the morning. “My pleasure.”
Her gaze locks with his and, for a few timeless seconds, he sees indecision in her eyes. “Uh, I’m just here,” she murmurs, her gaze finally dropping as she waves one slender arm towards the apartment block to their right.
He’s never felt like dragging his feet more. The heat of the previous day has faded to an agreeable predawn cool, and the air is spiked with a heady floral scent wafting from a massive jasmine bush planted in front of the far wall of her apartment complex. Neither of these sensory niceties, however, can complete with the simple pleasure of walking beside her.
Sara crosses her arms as they walk, her hands tucked into the crook of each elbow, her long legs matching his stride easily. When her right foot falters on a rough patch of concrete footpath a few seconds later, it’s suddenly the most natural thing in the world for him to lift his hand and gently take her arm. She gives him a quick smile of thanks, and he tries - and fails utterly - not to wonder if the rest of her skin is as soft as the warm flesh beneath his palm.
She doesn’t lean into him, but she doesn’t pull away either, and the time it takes to cover the distance to the front door of her apartment block is painfully short. When they reach the door, he forces himself to release his gentle grip on her arm. She doesn’t look at him as she reaches for the clutch purse that’s been tucked under her other arm, and her expression is difficult to read. The metal click of her purse clasp is oddly loud in the stillness surrounding them, then she clears her throat lightly. “I had a really good time tonight.”
He hears the nervous tremor darting through her voice, and he knows - God, he hopes he knows - that whatever is happening here between them, it’s entirely mutual. “Me too.” He leans against the wall, determined not to leave until he’s extracted the promise of another date, or at least her number; anything that means that this won’t be the first and last time he sees her. He watches her as she delves into her open purse, obviously looking for her house keys, then makes a decision that will either be the best or the worst one he’s ever made. “I suppose you’ll be going to the Governor’s house next weekend for the usual 4th July fireworks shindig.”
Her mouth curve in a smile that makes him want to taste what’s left of her faded lipstick. “Not necessarily.” Putting the search for her keys on hold, she lifts her head and gives him a disconcertingly steady look. “Why do you ask?”
“My brother and his girlfriend are having a barbecue on Saturday.” Stop over-thinking. Just do it. He smiles at her. “Would you like to come?”
Her eyes widen, but she’s smiling, too. “Are you asking me on a date?”
Her response is not that of a woman who dislikes the idea of going on a date with him, and he doesn’t bother hiding his grin. “Yes.”
Her smile widens, her tone becoming faintly teasing. “You don’t waste any time, do you?”
“We’ve lived in the same city for thirty years and I’ve only just met you.” He sees the impact of his simple words in her eyes, and thinks he could really get used to being this open and straightforward with her. “I’m just trying to make up for lost time.”
“I would love to come,” she says softly, quickly, almost before he’s finished speaking, “but first I have to tell you something.” Her hands shift their grip on her purse, flexing and relaxing over and over again. “Something I didn’t mention tonight because -” She breaks off, her gaze sliding away from his, her pale throat working as she swallows hard. After a few endless seconds, she takes a deep breath and looks him in the eye once more. “I was an addict four years ago, and I’m an addict now.” Her gaze searches his face worriedly, as if afraid of what she might see there. “I’m in recovery now and I’ve been clean for four years come Tuesday, but I will always be an addict.”
A rush of tender pride washes over him, the force of it taking him by surprise. He’s lost count of the number of addicts he’s met and mentored during his time at the shelter, but it seems things are very different when you’re violently attracted to the recovering addict in question. He smiles at her, giving her the only answer that rings true to him. “Congratulations.”
She stares at him, as though confused by his reaction. No longer caring that he’s probably grinning like an idiot, he gently tugs her purse from her hands, places it carefully on the cement beside his feet, then moves those feet a few steps closer to hers. “That makes Tuesday your fourth anniversary, right?”
She frowns as she turns to face him, her hands fluttering in the empty air between them, her eyes searching his. “Don’t you want to know why I checked into rehab?”
“Not if you don’t feel ready to tell me.” Perhaps he’s being naive, but it’s the truth. She’s already revealed far more than she realises, and that’s enough for him. His pulse thrumming at the back of his throat, he does something he never thought he’d be doing when he arrived at the church yesterday afternoon. Lifting his hand to her face, he lets his palm rest against her cheek, his fingertips flirting with the delicate curve of her ear. “When you are ready, I’ll be all ears.”
She’s not smiling now, but that’s okay, because there’s a heat in her eyes that makes his whole body tighten. Beneath the subtle scent of her perfume, he can smell her skin and her hair, sweet and soft. His hand is still cupping her face, the glittering drop of her earring brushing against his fingers, her almost inaudible rush of breath as she parts her lips as loud as a clanging bell inside his whirring thoughts. He sees and hears and feels a hundred different things as he waits, an exquisite moment of anticipation, then he bows his head and touches his mouth to hers.
Her lips seem to soften beneath his, another sigh letting him feel the warmth of her breath. He brushes his mouth against hers a second time, this time letting his bottom lip catch hers in a fleeting caress that sends an urgent rush of heat straight to his groin. With a supreme effort, he lifts his head and draws away, wanting to see her face, praying that he hasn’t overstepped this particular line way too soon.
To his utter relief, she looks exactly how he feels; dazed, but in the best way imaginable. Her eyes lock with his as she lifts her hand to his heart, her fingertips five points of heat as they slide across his shirt until her palm is flat against his chest. He’s conscious of the rise and fall of his body beneath her hand, his already quickened breathing snagging in his lungs when she wraps her hand around his tie, her knuckles pressing lightly against his sternum. He looks at her, silently urging her to put him out of this delicious misery, and a tiny smile touches the corner of her mouth as she lifts her face to his.
Their first kiss, while chaste, had made his pulse quicken. This kiss makes him want to sink to the ground and wrap himself around her until she is arching and trembling in his arms. Somewhere, amidst the taste and feel of her, he knows this is neither the time nor the place, so he does the next best thing. Leaning back against the wall behind him, he tugs her closer, letting the weight of her body press him against the rough brickwork.
Her breasts are high and full against his chest, her hips twitching maddeningly as she shifts her weight, and his core body temperature leaps right off the scale. Just when he thinks this is the most erotic embrace he’s ever experienced, he feels the twin sensation of her hand on his hip and the tip of her tongue brushing against his. He hears himself make a choked noise that feels as though it’s come straight from his solar plexus, then they’re kissing frantically, hard and deep, his hands tight on her hips, a breathless dance of hunger and need and discovery.
I knew it. The words flash through the blurred tangle of his thoughts, a dazed realisation. When he slides his knee between hers, she immediately shifts closer, moulding her body to his, and the press of her belly against his aching erection is almost enough to make him forget the security light above their heads. When he feels the nip of her teeth on his bottom lip, he’s tempted to reach up and unscrew the damned light bulb altogether.
He kisses her until he feels himself approaching zero, the almost painful clamouring of his body becoming more and more insistent. He wants so much more - he wants everything - but for tonight, for now, this kiss is enough.
He reluctantly lifts his head, his lips feeling as shaky as his legs, to find her gazing at him as though she can’t quite believe what’s just happened. Thinking he knows exactly how she feels, he exhales loudly before bowing his head to hers once more. This time, though, he simply rests his forehead against hers, wanting to be as close to her as possible without actually kissing her. “I’m going to need to call you several times between now and next Saturday,” he says softly, trying out the words gingerly on his tingling tongue. His hands are still gripping her hips, holding her close enough for her to realise his body is still hoping for a different outcome to the evening, but she doesn’t seem to mind.
Her smile is evident in her voice. “Is that right?”
“Mmmm.” He lifts his head, smiling as he gives into yet another temptation, this time exploring the smooth curve of her throat and shoulder as he brushes aside several wayward tendrils of dark auburn hair. If he touched his thumb to the tender spot beneath her jaw, he thinks, would her pulse be racing as quickly as his? “But that could prove difficult if I don’t have your number.”
She leans back, smiling, the arch of her spine pressing her hips against his in a very interest way. “I don’t have a pen,” she says lightly as she lifts one hand to his face and rubs her thumb across his mouth. Her lipstick has all but vanished, and he doesn’t have to try too hard to imagine where it might have gone.
“Just tell me.” If there’s one thing he knows at this moment in time, it’s that he’s got a good head for numbers. “I’ll remember it.”
A few seconds later, the words be careful what you wish for flutter through his head. Her perfume teases his senses as she puts her lips to his ear, the feel of her warm breath on his heated skin sending goosebumps skittering down his spine with every new number she utters. As though realising the effect she’s having on him, she tells him her number twice, and by the time she’s finished, he knows he’ll never be able to call her without blushing. Finally, she takes a small step backwards, and his whole body immediately protests the lack of her. “You got that?”
God. “Yes.” He closes his eyes, then moves away from the brick wall, his hand momentarily tightening on her hip as he turns her towards the door. “You’d better go in.” Purse, he thinks dazedly. Keys. Blinking, he hurriedly picks up her purse, finds her keys, and drops both items into her waiting hands. Then he steps back, giving her space to open the door and himself some badly needed room to cool down. To his relief - and utter disappointment - she’s quick to open the metal security door, holding it ajar as she turns to face him with a smile. “If you do happen to forget the number-”
He succumbs to the need to touch her one last time, sliding his palm along the length of her arm, her skin smooth beneath the sweep of his fingertips. “I won’t.”
To his surprise, she grabs his hand, entwining her fingers with his. “If you do, though?” Her dark gaze seems to burn into his. “I’m in the book.”
Obeying an impulse stronger than any amount of willpower he’s ever possessed, he lifts their clasped hands to his mouth, pressing a long kiss to the back of her hand, tasting the salt of her skin on his tongue. Time to go. “Goodnight, Sara.”
It’s after four o’clock in the morning, and he suspects she’s beyond weary, but her eyes are bright with mischief as she smiles at him. “Goodnight, Phineas.”
Much later, he will wonder if this was the moment he decided she was the perfect woman for him, but right now, all he knows is that he wants to sweep her up in his arms and whisk her away in his car to install her in his apartment and his bed and his life. Which could, he thinks as he gives himself a mental shake, be classified as rushing things. But God, he wants to rush. “I’ll call you.”
Her eyes never leaving his, she rests her head against the open door, her voice infused with a quiet optimism that makes his chest tighten. “I hope so.”
He has to leave, but he can’t bring himself to turn his back on her. Wanting to drink in the sight of her for as long as possible, he starts to back away from her, earning himself a smile in the process. He knows ten paces will bring him to the cobbled pathway that will take him to the sidewalk, allowing him the luxury of enjoying her smile as she watches him. When his right heel lands on the edge of the pathway, he lifts his hand and waves, a gesture that manages to feel both absurd and exactly right.
She waves back, adding a dimpled smile of farewell into the bargain. He turns to walk down the path, then gives into the temptation to sneak one last look. He sees her slip inside, then hears the click of the door being locked behind her. He pauses, his gaze sweeping over the apartment complex as he studies the darkened windows, then turns on his heel, silently berating himself. You’re not a creepy stalker type, remember?
He walks slowly back to his car, feeling as though it’s been hours since he left it. Patting down his pockets, he finds only his car keys and wallet. Any hopes of retracing his steps to the apartment block behind him are dashed when he spies his cell phone sitting on the driver’s seat where he’d left it in his haste to open Sara’s door. As he picks it up to toss it onto the passenger seat, its screen comes to life, showing a new incoming message. His heart does a quick two-step as his brain jumps to the most pleasant assumption, then he remembers he didn’t give Sara his number. Shaking his head at his own foolishness, he quickly checks his inbox before he starts the ignition. The text message is from Lincoln, sent several hours earlier when Michael still had the phone set to silent. It would have been around the time he and Sara were ordering their first coffee, he realises.
How was wedding? Boring as batshit?
Michael chuckles beneath his breath. Tossing the phone onto the seat beside him, he starts the engine, then takes one last look at the apartment complex he’s just left. There are two lights glowing in two adjoining windows in the southeast corner, quite possibly a bedroom and a bathroom. He smiles, thinking she’d probably have a pretty impressive view from that corner apartment.
Hastily assuring himself there’s a difference between being a creepy stalker and finding out these things by accident, he begins the five minute journey to his own apartment. The traffic is minimal, the usual assortment of shift-workers and taxis, providing little to distract him from mentally replaying the evenings events on a loop in his head. He thinks about their words, her smile, her eyes, her laugh. Mostly, though, he thinks about their kiss. After five minutes of undeniably pleasant mental torture, it’s almost a relief to turn into his street.
When he’s parked his car in its usual space and switched off the engine, Michael picks up his cell phone and reads his brother’s text message again. He grins, his fingers flying over the keypad as he types a reply. His grin widens as he presses send, knowing that both the obscurity of his reply and the time it was sent will no doubt irritate his curious brother nicely.
Best wedding ever.
~*~
If he was asked to define Hell on Earth at this exact moment, Michael Scofield thinks, he would be tempted to simply wave a weary hand at his current situation. Then again, he’s thought he was going to die at least three times in the last ten minutes, so maybe he’s not the best one to judge.
Sweats drips into his eyes, making them sting, and each pounding step sends a quiver of agony through his calf muscles. As the footsteps over his shoulder grow closer and closer, he sucks in another desperate lungful of oxygen, pushing himself even harder, because he has no intention of letting his tormentor win this particular battle.
Five minutes later, he’s bent over at the waist, his hands on his hips, gulping in as much air as his lungs will hold. The hearty slap on the back nearly knocks him off-balance, but the teasing jibe that follows is enough to make him pull himself upright.
“Man, you’d better be in shape by the time number two arrives, or you’ll never survive.”
Michael swipes his arm across his face, wiping the sweat from his eyes. “Is that the voice of experience talking, or are you just being a pain in the ass?”
His brother grins, teeth flashing white in his tanned face. “Little from column A, little from column B.” He flicks his wrist, and a small bottle of water arcs through the air between them. “Vee does most of the running after our two and she does it without breaking a sweat.” He gives a good-natured roll of the eyes. “And you know how she is about exercising on purpose.”
Michael chuckles as he catches the bottle of water, relieved that his straining lungs still seem to be working properly. Veronica’s steadfast refusal to step foot inside her husband’s gym unless it’s to check the books and read over the staff’s employment contracts has always amused him, but it seems to work for them. “Newborns can’t run,” he points out mildly, and Lincoln gives him a look of pure condescension.
“You’ll see,” his brother says in a cheerfully ominous voice. “You guys still coming to our place next Sunday?”
“That depends.” Tilting back his head, he drains half the bottle in a few gulps, then grins at his brother. “Have you learned to cook hamburgers without burning the crap out of them yet?”
The insult, as always, rolls straight off Lincoln’s shoulders. “One man’s charcoal is another man’s well-done, bro.”
“We’ll be there,” Michael tells him as they begin to trudge back towards where they’d parked their cars. “We’ll be putting in the usual appearance at the Executive Mansion on Saturday night for the fireworks, but Sunday is all yours.”
It takes his brother a moment to reply - his mind is obviously still focused on the workout they’ve just done, one finger pressed against the pulse beneath his jaw, his gaze intent on his watch - but eventually he tosses Michael an openly curious glance. “How are things between you and old Frank these days?”
Michael takes a moment to consider the question. The road to forging a decent relationship with Frank Tancredi over the last three years has been a bumpy one, to say the least. Given the first stumbling block was Sara falling pregnant three months into their relationship, Michael decided long ago that things could only improve from there. “Not too bad.”
Lincoln smirks. “I guess seeing as you’ve knocked up his daughter within the confines of wedlock this time around -”
Michael might be tempted to be insulted, but as usual, his brother has pretty much hit the nail on the head. Knowing it’s easier to join them than beat them when it comes to Lincoln, he grins at him. “Yeah, we’re hoping that little fact might even make up for getting married on a beach instead of in St Paul’s cathedral.”
“I wouldn’t hold your breath.” His brother laughs out loud, the sound almost startling in the pre-dawn tranquillity around them. “Vee’s father might be a drunken bum, but at least he didn’t give a damn about the wheres and whos when we got hitched.”
Michael retrieves his car keys from the pocket of his sweats. “I thought he was going to AA?”
“When it suits him.” He shrugs. “It’s like Sara told Vee, it’s not going to work until he actually wants to quit boozing. Until then, he’s just going for the free cookies and coffee.” He knocks his knuckles on the hood of Michael’s SUV. “How’s it running?”
“Pretty good,” Michael says with a grin, reaching up to tap his fingers on the roof of the car he’d bought the day they’d discovered Sara was pregnant, trading in the Audi without a second’s hesitation.
Lincoln eyes the keys in his brother’s hand, a familiar smirk playing about his lips. “Just as well, man. Embarrassing to drive an Audi with such a dorky key ring.”
Michael spins his car keys around on his index finger, making the small plastic space ship fly through the air. “You’re just jealous you don’t have one.”
“That’ll be the day.” His brother rolls his eyes as he trudges the short distance to his own car. “When did she give you that thing, on your first date?”
“Third date,” Michael corrects him, not bothering to suppress what he suspects is a goofy smile. It was three years ago, but the memory of Sara presenting him with the Millennium Falcon key ring she’d found on eBay is still as sharp as the day it happened. Of course, the key ring hadn’t been the only thing she’d given him that day -
“Michael!”
Startled, he looks across to see Lincoln staring at him, his hands on his hips. “Uh, sorry, what?”
“I said I’ll see you on Sunday.” His brother shakes his head, looking more amused than annoyed. “Bring beer.”
Michael rolls his own eyes. As if he’d turn up to a barbecue at Lincoln’s without beer. He’s not sure he’d be let in the front door, only brother or not. “Say hi to Vee for me.”
Home is only a fifteen minute drive, and the house is quiet and still when he lets himself in the front door. He’d initially resisted Lincoln’s suggestion of an especially early run this morning, but now he’s glad. The weekend stretches out before him, free and clear, two whole days to spend with the two people he likes most in the world.
He eases off his running shoes inside the door, and pads through the house, his sock-clad feet silent on the wooden floorboards. As he gently places his wallet and car keys on the dining room table, he looks - as he always does - at the framed photograph sitting on top of the bookcase and, as always, it makes him smile. The silver frame itself is nondescript, surrounding a candid photograph taken three years ago. He doesn’t have to look at the back of the photograph to remember the note scribbled there; he’s long learned it by heart.
Dear Sara, the honeymoon was wonderful! We must catch up soon, but I was just going through the candids that the official photographer took during the reception and found this one. Thought you might like it as a souvenir of our special day. Hope you got his number! Love Bec xoxox
In the photograph, he and Sara are sitting at his table at the wedding reception. Sara is talking, her hands curved in the air between them as if she’s making a particularly emphatic point. He’s gazing at her, apparently completely oblivious to everything else around him. Michael smiles as he straightens the frame. His brother might say that nothing much has changed since then, but there is one little difference.
He stops at the first bedroom off the hallway, holding his breath as he silently opens the door. To his relief, Christopher is still asleep, his normally frenetic motion interrupted by slumber, his light brown hair clipped in a new haircut that reminds Michael very much of LJ as a child. Pulling the door shut with exaggerated care, he walks silently to the main bathroom to take a very quick shower. He would very much like to take advantage of the fact that their son is still asleep, but he doesn’t think his wife would appreciate the earthiness of his post-running glow.
Wrapping a towel around his waist, he dumps his running gear into the laundry basket, then eases open the door to the master bedroom. Sara is still asleep too, her arms wrapped around one of his pillows, her bright red hair a vivid tumble against the green sheets. As he drops the damp towel onto the floor (mental note, he thinks, pick up towel before she sees it) and slides into bed beside her, she shifts restlessly, then rolls onto her side to face him. “How was your run?” Her voice is thick with sleep, but her smile is as warm as the sunshine beginning to creep through the wooden blind at their window.
“Brutal.”
She chuckles under her breath, curling her arm around his waist as he stretches out beside her. “How’s your brother?”
“Annoying.” Wrapping his arm around her, he pulls her closer, his body instantly coming alive at the feel of her against him. She smells of soap and sleep and Sara, and he wants nothing more than to kiss her from her throat to her toes and everywhere in between.
She smiles against the curve of his bare shoulder, apparently oblivious to his increasingly lurid thoughts. “What time are they expecting us on Sunday?”
“Uh, he didn’t say.”
“Well, they’ve held a 4th July barbecue every year since I met you, so I guess the usual time will be fine.” She yawns softly, arching her back as she stretches her legs, her feet brushing against his. Her hand slides from his chest to his belly, then a little lower, then stops. “Um, Michael?”
He closes his eyes, giving himself over to the simple pleasure of her touch. “Hmmmm?”
She trails her fingertips up his bare thigh, then draws a teasing circle around his groin. “You’re not wearing any clothes.”
“I took a shower,” he manages to say, his whole body tightening with anticipation of her next touch.
“Christopher is sound asleep, I’m awake and you’re not wearing any clothes.” Her voice humming with quiet laughter, she wraps her hand around him, making him suck in a sharp breath and dig his heels into the mattress. “Can you do the math here, or do I have to be pushy about this?”
Letting out his breath in a rush, he rolls onto his side, pushing one leg between hers as he peels up her sleeveless pyjama top with one hand. “I’m very good at math,” he tells her with a smile.
Her pyjamas are soon lost in the bedclothes, her arms sliding around his neck as he reaches for her. Her breasts are fuller now, filling his hands as he bends his head to kiss each one in turn. Her fingers dig into his shoulders with each new scrape of his teeth and touch of his tongue, her body shifting restlessly beneath his, her breath coming faster, louder. When she arches her back, exhaling a sigh of pleasure as she tilts back her head, he needs no further encouragement. He scrapes his morning beard against her throat, tasting the goosebumps that rise up on her skin, then settles himself in the cradle of her thighs. “And how are we feeling this morning, Doctor Tancredi?”
“Pretty good,” she murmurs, tightening his legs around him. “And you?”
He closes his eyes as he sinks into her in a slow slide of heat and flesh, a groan rumbling in his throat as her hips instantly rise to meet his, each languid thrust making him see stars behind his eyelids. “Great. Good. Couldn’t be better. Oh, God, Sara-”
She kisses him, swallowing his groan of delight, her fingers pressing deep into the muscles of his back. Her skin is already flushed, the tight buds of her nipples brushing against his bare chest, her body slick and hot around his. It’s always been good between them, right from the very first time, but pregnancy seems to agree with her in more ways than one, and he is eternally grateful.
She buries her face against his shoulder when she comes, shuddering beneath him with a muffled cry, beating him to the finish line by mere seconds. He slumps over her, feeling as though his entire skeletal system has been replaced with warm jello, his brain with melted Playdough. And that thought alone, he decides wryly as Sara strokes his damp back, is a sure sign he now thinks like a parent.
It’s also a reminder there is one person he hasn’t checked on this morning. Wrapping one arm around her hips, he slides downward until his cheek is resting on the swell of her stomach. “Good morning in there.” He kisses Sara’s navel, then presses his ear against the high curve of her belly. “Hey, I can hear the ocean.”
“Idiot,” his wife chuckles, her fingers snaking pathways through his cropped hair as the unmistakable sounds of their firstborn waking up start to filter underneath their bedroom door. “It’s your turn, Scofield.”
Feigning a weary sigh, he disentangles himself. “A man works five days a week, you’d think he’d be allowed a little more shuteye on a Saturday morning.”
She pinches him somewhere very interesting, halting his efforts to leave their rumpled bed. “Sure, but only if his wife is a lady of leisure.”
Between working as a counsellor at their local NA center and looking after one and a half children, he’s pretty sure she doesn’t qualify for that particular title. “Curse your legal mumbo jumbo.”
Having hastily donned a pair of boxers, he pauses at the door, turning to study her. The forest green sheets reveal far more skin than they conceal, the contrast of her bright hair against them making him think of mermaids and oceans and bright June sunshine outside a gothic cathedral. She stretches languidly, her arms raised high above her head, then catches his eye. She smiles, her dark gaze glowing with lazy satisfaction. “Something wrong?”
He grins. “Not a thing.”
~*~