Climate Change - Michael/Sara (1/1)
Title: Climate Change (1/1)
Fandom: Prison Break
Characters:Michael Scofield, Sara Tancredi
Genre: Het, non-epilogue-compliant, post-series, AU, fluff, holiday fic
Pairing:Michael/Sara
Rating:PG-15
Length:1,276 words
Summary:When she lived in Chicago, she used to dream of spending Christmas on a sandy beach. Now that she actually is spending Christmas on a sandy beach - well, that's another story. (seriously, it's holiday fluff fic, not gonna lie)
Author's Note:Oh gosh, how does this work again? *taps computer screen* Please forgive my long absence, will you? Prison Break may be done and dusted, but I'm not ready to let go yet, not when we're talking about my most favourite OTP ever. *g* This little Christmas story is for scribblecat, who has spent the last year being my reliable conduit to fandom, and without whom I might have gone slightly bonkers. She made a request for this kind of story a little while ago, and I hope this fits the bill! *hugs her*
~*~
She can feel him watching her as she rests her forehead against the cool metal of the refrigerator door, the unopened can of diet soda already slippery in her hand. “You okay?”
She purses her lips as she draws in a breath of hot, salt-tinged air. “Yeah.” Turning to face him, she gives him a smile that feels as weary as she does. “Just tired of being hot, I guess.”
He frowns, and she knows he’s preparing to shoulder the blame for the weather, their malfunctioning air-conditioning unit, that they’re thousands of miles away from a real winter even though it’s December, the fact that she can feel sweat prickling her scalp beneath her damp hair when she’s doing nothing more than standing perfectly still. It’s what he does, take responsibility, and she loves him for it even when it makes her want to shake him and tell him that there are so many millions of things that are not - and will never be - his fault.
“How about we fly to Chicago?”
“Why not?” she shoots back laughingly, doing her best to brush aside the strands of hair that are sticking to the back of her neck, her laughter catching in her throat as her eyes meet his. He’s serious, she realises with a start. “Uh, when did you have in mind?”
He shrugs, his tone casual, as though her answer doesn’t matter one way or the other. “Tomorrow morning?”
She offers him a wry smile, wondering if she should check his temperature for heatstroke. “And how would we do that?”
“You’re not rostered to work at the clinic again until the 2nd, right?” He smiles as he closes the distance between them, gently taking the unopened can of soda from her limp grasp. “And I’ve decided to take the rest of the week off.”
The heat seems to have affected her memory, because she’s pretty sure the last time she checked, he’d planned to work right up to Christmas Eve. “Is that right?”
“Yep.”
He runs the cold soda can slowly up the length of her bare arm, and she closes her eyes at the feel of it against her hot skin. When he presses it lightly against the nape of her neck, she shivers, relishing the unfamiliar sensation of goosebumps rising up on her flesh. “When did you decide that?”
“About five seconds ago,” he says, a smile lilting through the words.
She opens her eyes to meet his steady gaze, knowing she should tell him that it’s okay, that she’s just having a bad day and this is their home now. They walked away from Chicago eighteen months ago, wanting to be as far away as possible from the relentless attention of the media, finding sanctuary in this place of sand and water and heat. It is her home, their home, but some days, she feels the loss of her past like a physical ache that twists her heart. “Lincoln and LJ-"
“- will understand.” He grins. “They’ll only be surfing and fishing for most of it, anyway.”
Another bead of sweat makes its way down her spine, and a sudden image of being muffled in her favourite winter coat (where the hell is that thing, anyway?), her hands wrapped around a mug of something hot and calorie-laden, Michael’s glove-clad hand entwined with hers as the soles of her heavy boots slide on an icy sidewalk. Then she thinks of the practicalities of upending their holiday plans in the space of a day, and the deliciously chilly daydream wavers and fades. “Michael, I would love to freeze my ass off in Chicago for Christmas, but-"
He places the still unopened soda can on the kitchen counter, then bends his head to press a warm kiss to her damp temple. He smells of clean sweat and lemon soap and the iced coffee they’d drunk that morning, and despite the heat she leans into him, the warmth of his body seeping through her thin shirt. “I’ll make it happen,” he tells her, and she knows he will.
~*~
The familiar Chicago wind rattles against the windows of their hotel room as he slides her (new) coat from her shoulders, and she doesn’t bother fighting the urge to sink back against him. They’d eaten far too much at dinner, indulging in too many of their remembered favourites, and she feels drunk on nostalgia and club soda and the touch of Michael’s cold lips on the nape of her neck. “Thank you for today,” she murmurs, turning to face him, her hands coming up to grip the lapels of his duffle coat. “I didn’t realise how much I needed to do this.”
He tugs the woollen cap from her head, his eyes serious. He looks a little tired, which isn’t surprising for a man who had spent several hours last night reorganising their schedule to his usual exacting standards. She smooths one gentle hand over his close-cropped scalp, and he gives her a smile. “It was worth it,” he says in answer to her unspoken concern. “We’re going to visit everyone tomorrow?”
She nods, swallowing the sudden lump in her throat, because they’ll be visiting the dead, not the living. The list of the people they left behind in the Chicago earth is long, too long, but she won’t be grieving alone this time. “We should take flowers,” she hears herself say in an oddly calm voice, as though she’s not discussing visiting her father’s grave, “even if it’s snowing-”
“We will,” he assures her as he tugs her gently into his arms. Her nose is frozen, as well as her toes (and quite possibly her ass) but Michael’s hands are warm, his clever fingers unfastening buttons and zippers. Her gloves are off now, and she slides her hands inside his open coat as she kisses the smooth column of his throat, tanned by a foreign sun. “I love you,” he tells her as he cups her face in his hands, the tenderness in his eyes sending a ripple of warmth through her that has nothing to do with the faux fireplace in the corner of this overpriced hotel room. “I don’t care where we are or where we live.” He kisses her then, a lazy tasting of her mouth, the sweep of his tongue against hers a slow burning caress that tightens her skin and spikes her pulse. When it’s over, he rests his forehead against hers, his hands tight on her hips. “If you want to move back to Chicago-“
Feeling more than a little dazed, she lifts one hand, touching her fingertips to his mouth. She hasn’t yet had the chance to tell him that she’d felt wrong-footed and out of place on Chicago’s familiar streets all morning. Until, that is, the moment he’d taken her hand. She’d felt the same way when they’d started their new life in Panama all those months ago. It seems, she muses, as though there is one particular common denominator in her life, no matter where she might be in the world. “Let’s sleep on it.”
A chuckle ripples through his chest - she feels it against her own heart - as his arms slide around her waist. “For how long?”
She tilts her head back for his kiss, her lips curving in a smile against his. She doesn’t want to make any life-changing decisions tonight, or even tomorrow. All she wants right now is to go to bed and feel cool starched sheets beneath her and the hard heat of him inside her. And maybe order extravagently priced hot chocolate from room service at a truly decadent hour, she thinks. “Until next year, at least.”
~*~
Fandom: Prison Break
Characters:Michael Scofield, Sara Tancredi
Genre: Het, non-epilogue-compliant, post-series, AU, fluff, holiday fic
Pairing:Michael/Sara
Rating:PG-15
Length:1,276 words
Summary:When she lived in Chicago, she used to dream of spending Christmas on a sandy beach. Now that she actually is spending Christmas on a sandy beach - well, that's another story. (seriously, it's holiday fluff fic, not gonna lie)
Author's Note:Oh gosh, how does this work again? *taps computer screen* Please forgive my long absence, will you? Prison Break may be done and dusted, but I'm not ready to let go yet, not when we're talking about my most favourite OTP ever. *g* This little Christmas story is for scribblecat, who has spent the last year being my reliable conduit to fandom, and without whom I might have gone slightly bonkers. She made a request for this kind of story a little while ago, and I hope this fits the bill! *hugs her*
~*~
She can feel him watching her as she rests her forehead against the cool metal of the refrigerator door, the unopened can of diet soda already slippery in her hand. “You okay?”
She purses her lips as she draws in a breath of hot, salt-tinged air. “Yeah.” Turning to face him, she gives him a smile that feels as weary as she does. “Just tired of being hot, I guess.”
He frowns, and she knows he’s preparing to shoulder the blame for the weather, their malfunctioning air-conditioning unit, that they’re thousands of miles away from a real winter even though it’s December, the fact that she can feel sweat prickling her scalp beneath her damp hair when she’s doing nothing more than standing perfectly still. It’s what he does, take responsibility, and she loves him for it even when it makes her want to shake him and tell him that there are so many millions of things that are not - and will never be - his fault.
“How about we fly to Chicago?”
“Why not?” she shoots back laughingly, doing her best to brush aside the strands of hair that are sticking to the back of her neck, her laughter catching in her throat as her eyes meet his. He’s serious, she realises with a start. “Uh, when did you have in mind?”
He shrugs, his tone casual, as though her answer doesn’t matter one way or the other. “Tomorrow morning?”
She offers him a wry smile, wondering if she should check his temperature for heatstroke. “And how would we do that?”
“You’re not rostered to work at the clinic again until the 2nd, right?” He smiles as he closes the distance between them, gently taking the unopened can of soda from her limp grasp. “And I’ve decided to take the rest of the week off.”
The heat seems to have affected her memory, because she’s pretty sure the last time she checked, he’d planned to work right up to Christmas Eve. “Is that right?”
“Yep.”
He runs the cold soda can slowly up the length of her bare arm, and she closes her eyes at the feel of it against her hot skin. When he presses it lightly against the nape of her neck, she shivers, relishing the unfamiliar sensation of goosebumps rising up on her flesh. “When did you decide that?”
“About five seconds ago,” he says, a smile lilting through the words.
She opens her eyes to meet his steady gaze, knowing she should tell him that it’s okay, that she’s just having a bad day and this is their home now. They walked away from Chicago eighteen months ago, wanting to be as far away as possible from the relentless attention of the media, finding sanctuary in this place of sand and water and heat. It is her home, their home, but some days, she feels the loss of her past like a physical ache that twists her heart. “Lincoln and LJ-"
“- will understand.” He grins. “They’ll only be surfing and fishing for most of it, anyway.”
Another bead of sweat makes its way down her spine, and a sudden image of being muffled in her favourite winter coat (where the hell is that thing, anyway?), her hands wrapped around a mug of something hot and calorie-laden, Michael’s glove-clad hand entwined with hers as the soles of her heavy boots slide on an icy sidewalk. Then she thinks of the practicalities of upending their holiday plans in the space of a day, and the deliciously chilly daydream wavers and fades. “Michael, I would love to freeze my ass off in Chicago for Christmas, but-"
He places the still unopened soda can on the kitchen counter, then bends his head to press a warm kiss to her damp temple. He smells of clean sweat and lemon soap and the iced coffee they’d drunk that morning, and despite the heat she leans into him, the warmth of his body seeping through her thin shirt. “I’ll make it happen,” he tells her, and she knows he will.
~*~
The familiar Chicago wind rattles against the windows of their hotel room as he slides her (new) coat from her shoulders, and she doesn’t bother fighting the urge to sink back against him. They’d eaten far too much at dinner, indulging in too many of their remembered favourites, and she feels drunk on nostalgia and club soda and the touch of Michael’s cold lips on the nape of her neck. “Thank you for today,” she murmurs, turning to face him, her hands coming up to grip the lapels of his duffle coat. “I didn’t realise how much I needed to do this.”
He tugs the woollen cap from her head, his eyes serious. He looks a little tired, which isn’t surprising for a man who had spent several hours last night reorganising their schedule to his usual exacting standards. She smooths one gentle hand over his close-cropped scalp, and he gives her a smile. “It was worth it,” he says in answer to her unspoken concern. “We’re going to visit everyone tomorrow?”
She nods, swallowing the sudden lump in her throat, because they’ll be visiting the dead, not the living. The list of the people they left behind in the Chicago earth is long, too long, but she won’t be grieving alone this time. “We should take flowers,” she hears herself say in an oddly calm voice, as though she’s not discussing visiting her father’s grave, “even if it’s snowing-”
“We will,” he assures her as he tugs her gently into his arms. Her nose is frozen, as well as her toes (and quite possibly her ass) but Michael’s hands are warm, his clever fingers unfastening buttons and zippers. Her gloves are off now, and she slides her hands inside his open coat as she kisses the smooth column of his throat, tanned by a foreign sun. “I love you,” he tells her as he cups her face in his hands, the tenderness in his eyes sending a ripple of warmth through her that has nothing to do with the faux fireplace in the corner of this overpriced hotel room. “I don’t care where we are or where we live.” He kisses her then, a lazy tasting of her mouth, the sweep of his tongue against hers a slow burning caress that tightens her skin and spikes her pulse. When it’s over, he rests his forehead against hers, his hands tight on her hips. “If you want to move back to Chicago-“
Feeling more than a little dazed, she lifts one hand, touching her fingertips to his mouth. She hasn’t yet had the chance to tell him that she’d felt wrong-footed and out of place on Chicago’s familiar streets all morning. Until, that is, the moment he’d taken her hand. She’d felt the same way when they’d started their new life in Panama all those months ago. It seems, she muses, as though there is one particular common denominator in her life, no matter where she might be in the world. “Let’s sleep on it.”
A chuckle ripples through his chest - she feels it against her own heart - as his arms slide around her waist. “For how long?”
She tilts her head back for his kiss, her lips curving in a smile against his. She doesn’t want to make any life-changing decisions tonight, or even tomorrow. All she wants right now is to go to bed and feel cool starched sheets beneath her and the hard heat of him inside her. And maybe order extravagently priced hot chocolate from room service at a truly decadent hour, she thinks. “Until next year, at least.”
~*~