Safe House - Chapter Ten
Title: Safe House - Chapter Ten
Fandom: Prison Break
Pairing: Sara Tancredi/Michael Scofield
Other Characters: Lincoln Burrows, Paul Kellerman
Length: 7,548 words
Rating: NC-17. Not for the kiddies.
Summary: The words safe house conjure up a picture of a dark and fortified hideout, certainly not this plain but clean wooden house in the outer suburbs.Spoilers for Season One and Season Two. Pretty much AU from "Scan" onwards, but it also uses some events from "First Down", "Sub-Division", "Buried", "Bolshoi Booze", "Disconnect" and "Chicago". I think you could call this an AU with canon overtones. Anything that you recognise from canon is not mine. Many thanks to sk56 for the beta and the Aussie Girls for the cheerleading. Special mention to foxriver_lady and sarah_scribbles for helping me 'while away' the long train journey - the playing cards were inspired. *g* This story is part of a series, the rest of which you can find here.
~*~
A few minutes later, they’ve removed their belongings from the car and wiped down every hard surface with the last of the baby wipes from Michael’s duffel bag. Shrugging into a backpack, Kellerman watches Michael wipe down the handle of Sara’s door, then sighs loudly. “If the fieldtrip is finally ready to move?”
Lincoln gives him a dour look, but only says, “After you.”
Somehow managing a smile that doubles as a snarl, Kellerman turns away and begins to walk, leading them back the way they’d come.
Lincoln looks at Michael. “This should be fun,” he deadpans, and Michael feels the ridiculous urge to chuckle bubbling up in his throat.
“Hmm.” He hefts his bag over his shoulder, catching Sara’s eye as he does. “Right up there with having my toes sliced off, I suspect.”
Sara ducks her head, but not before he sees her grin. They start trudging after Lincoln, who is keeping a careful arm’s reach distance behind Kellerman. Feeling the hot sun on the back of his neck, Michael gives into a sudden impulse, pulling off his cap and dropping it onto Sara’s head. She looks up, startled, then tugs the brim down over her eyes. “Thanks.”
He smiles at Sara, his heart suddenly feeling as though it’s too large for his chest, and wonders why it’s always the little things that make you realise how much you have to lose. “You’re welcome.”
They walk for several minutes in silence. Michael keeps his eyes on his brother and their unwanted tour guide, and can’t help noticing Kellerman’s faintly uneven gait. “Hey, Linc?”
His brother turns around, waiting for them to catch up. When they do, Michael jerks his head towards Kellerman and gives Lincoln a dour smile. “Looks like your aim was a little off.”
Lincoln watches the other man as he walks ahead of them, clearly favouring his right leg, then snorts. “Should’ve backed over him while I had the chance.”
Beside Michael, Sara blows out an audible breath. “I can’t believe you didn’t.”
“That would be my fault,” Michael tells her, suddenly wishing he hadn’t started this line of conversation. “I told Linc to try not to kill him.”
She gives him a fleeting of smile - of amusement? Forgiveness? He’s not sure - then she pulls the brim of his cap lower over her eyes. “Well, you know what they say. Hindsight’s a bitch,” she mutters wearily.
Michael glowers at Kellerman’s back. “Definitely.”
~*~
Walking quickly under the hot sun, it takes twenty-five minutes to reach the train station, and with every crunch of his boots on the dirt Michael tells himself that they’re one step closer to swinging in a hammock for the next twenty years. The thought has him casting a glance at Sara, assailed by a sudden feeling of uncertainty. Lincoln may have laughed at the idea of a dive shop, but Michael knows that once the dust has settled, anywhere he and LJ might find some peace will be a good place.
Sara is different. She’s used to being with people, helping people. They may have joked about the guest room in his mythical beach house, but he really has no idea how she’d feel about spending the next few years cooling her heels on a foreign beach. He could ask her now, of course, but that feels a little too much like tempting fate. Later, he decides, telling himself that his procrastination has nothing to do with being afraid of her answer.
When they finally arrive at the station, Lincoln looks at the surprisingly crowded platform, then at Michael. “What’s the plan?”
Kellerman smiles. “You leave that to me.”
“No offence,” Michael tells him dryly, “but I don’t think so.”
The other man lifts his eyebrows. “Anyone would think you didn’t trust me.”
“They’d be right.”
Kellerman returns his gaze with studied nonchalance, then pulls his FBI identification out of his back pocket. “I’ll break it down so we’re all on the same page, shall I?” he asks in a sing-song voice, as though Michael is five years old. “I’m the FBI agent, and you’re my prisoner.” He glances at Lincoln and Sara in turn. “Once we’re on board in our nice private carriage, you two will be joining us.”
Michael nods reluctantly, knowing it’s the best chance they’ve got, hating that agreeing makes it appear as though Kellerman is calling the shots. Unfortunately, right here and now, they have no other choice. “Fine.”
As he takes a step towards Kellerman, Sara curls her fingers into the cuff of his sweatshirt, not taking his hand but not letting him go, either. “Be careful,” she says quietly, not looking at him, and it’s all he can do not to thread his fingers through hers.
“I will.”
“Very touching.” Michael turns to see Kellerman watching them with undisguised scorn. “While we’re young?” Shrugging out of his jacket, he gestures to Michael to come closer. “Link your hands together.”
Michael does as he asks, then Kellerman drapes his jacket over the cradle of Michael’s linked hands. “Voila.” His smile is mocking. “Instant handcuffs.”
“I’m impressed.”
Kellerman tilts his head to one side, still smiling, and Michael wants nothing more than to punch it right off his mouth. “Of course you are.”
~*~
The stationmaster stares at Kellerman, looking remarkably composed for a man who’s just been informed he’s about to have a captured felon boarding one of his trains. “What’s he in for?”
Kellerman sighs loudly. “Killing people?”
“Uh, I’ll see what I can do.” The stationmaster’s composure is replaced by panic in the blink of an eye, and Michael is shoved right back to the First Bank of Chicago and the female teller whose voice shook with fear, to Fox River and Sara looking at him as though she didn’t recognise him, Henry Pope’s stricken expression as he realised just how thoroughly his trust had been betrayed.
I’m not going to hurt you, he wants to tell the man. He doesn’t, of course.
Kellerman’s plan works. Five minutes later he and Michael are climbing into a now empty carriage, and Michael tries not to think that this is going to be one favour the other man won’t hesitate to call in. Completely ignoring Kellerman's wordless direction as to where he is to sit, he chooses a window seat in the middle of the carriage. From there he sees Lincoln and Sara through the glass, sitting together on a metal bench, and even from this distance he can see that Lincoln is doing all the talking. He half-smiles at the thought of his brother being the chatty one in any situation, then Kellerman is moving towards the rear door of the carriage. “Time to get the kids, I guess.”
Michael looks down at the jacket that is still covering his hands, and the thought of having a piece of Kellerman’s clothing touching him suddenly makes his skin crawl. He tosses it at the other man as he passes, and the metal zipper hits the middle of his chest with satisfying force. Kellerman’s steady stride misses a step, then he rolls his eyes and keeps walking. Michael sprawls in his seat, feeling unrepentantly churlish. He hears Kellerman whistle - like he’s calling a stray dog, Michael thinks darkly - then Lincoln is walking down the centre aisle and dropping into a window seat at the end of the carriage.
He’s oddly pleased when Sara sinks into the seat opposite him, her knee bumping against his. Perhaps it would be safer if she sat away from him, out of sight, but he’s not about to suggest it. She gives him a quick smile when he catches her eye. “Do you want your cap back?”
He grins. “No, keep it. Looks better on you.” A faint hint of pink colours her face, then she tugs the brim of the cap lower over her eyes and slouches down in her seat.
Time drags. The heat of the sun is diffused by the thick windows, turning it into a pleasant wash of warmth that induces drowsiness. At the other end of the carriage, Lincoln is dozing, his cap tilted back on his head. Michael spends the time either watching the scenery through the window or watching Sara. It worries him how often her gaze strays to Kellerman, how her expression becomes remote and hardened every time she looks at him. Her face softens whenever Michael catches her gaze, but he can feel the tension in her, and once again wonders if the price of Kellerman’s help is too high. He thinks of everything she told him about that hotel room in Broken Arrow, everything Kellerman had done to her, and he begins counting down the hours until they can part company with their uninvited travel companion.
Four hours into their journey, Sara shifts in her seat restlessly, then leans forward to whisper his name. “Michael? Do you know where I could get some water?”
He considers the question for a few seconds, then nods. “I think there’s a bathroom downstairs.” She moves as if she’s about to stand, but he puts his hand on her knee, wondering just when he’d reached the point of using any small excuse to touch her. “I’ll go check.” He stretches each leg as he stands, slightly numb from sitting in the one spot for so long, then makes his way down the aisle. Kellerman doesn’t look at him as he passes, but Michael makes a point of glancing over his shoulder at Lincoln. His brother may look as though he’s dozing, but three years in Fox River makes a man a very light sleeper.
Michael is at the bottom of the internal stairs when he remembers that not only are there two bottles of water in the duffle bag under his seat, but that Sara actually packed them only a few hour ago. He thinks of the way she’s been looking at Kellerman, the tension that’s been literally humming through her, and his trip to the bathroom suddenly makes terrible sense.
He turns around, taking two steps at a time, angry with himself for being so easily distracted. He flings open the carriage door to find his fears come to life in a grim tableau. Kellerman is slumped in his seat, one leg sticking awkwardly out into the aisle. Sara is standing behind him, one hand digging into the artery just below his jaw, the other clawing at the burn on his chest. Kellerman’s hands are wrapped tightly around her wrists, his face white with pain.
“How’s that burn, Paul?” Her jaw clenches as she digs her fingernails into his chest, her dark eyes narrowed with anger. “Still tender, I bet.”
“Sara!” He shouts her name the same time Lincoln does, the word echoing around the carriage. Darting forward, he wraps his arms around her, pulling her backwards as Lincoln pulls her hands away from Kellerman’s neck. She writhes in his arms, her whole body rigid with fury, her feet scrambling to find purchase as she fights to get away from him.
Tightening his arms around her, he puts his mouth to her ear in a desperate attempt to cut through the red haze he knows has gripped her. “Settle down!”
Kellerman is standing now, one hand to his throat. “Crazy bitch!” he mutters, but he makes no move towards her. Lincoln releases his grip on Kellerman’s arm, but hovers between the two separated combatants. Kellerman shakes his head, a half-smile touching his lips, then he lunges across the back of his seat, his eyes wide with furious intent.
Michael jerks Sara backwards as his brother drops his shoulder and brings Kellerman’s attack to an abrupt standstill. Thwarted, Kellerman stares at Sara over Lincoln’s shoulder, looking at her as though he’s trying to work out the best way to slit her throat without getting blood on his jacket. “If she tries that again-”
One arm still curled tightly around Sara’s waist - he can feel the violent hammering of her heart against his chest - Michael stares at him. “You’ll do what?”
Kellerman doesn’t answer him. Instead he glances down at the bloody streaks now seeping through his shirt, then up at Sara with mocking disbelief. “I think you need to work on your bedside manner, doctor.”
“We all do what we have to do, Paul,” she practically snarls at him, then she’s pulling away from Michael and slamming the car door behind her, vanishing down the stairs that lead to the bathroom. Michael stands helpless in the middle of the aisle, torn between following her and wrapping his hands around Kellerman’s throat and taking over where she left off.
In the end, he does neither. He watches in silence as Lincoln snarlingly tells Kellerman to keep to his side of the car, then moves to sit next to his brother. “What the hell just happened?”
Lincoln levels a glare across the car towards Kellerman, then leans closer to Michael, keeping his voice low. “Crazy stuff. The Doc got up to stretch her legs and he got up too. Said something to her when she went past him and she kicked him, stuck her boot right into the knee of his bad leg.” He suddenly grins, as if replaying the sight in his head, and Michael can’t help wishing he’d been there to witness it himself. “He went down like a sack of potatoes, and she went for him.” He looks at Michael. “Right about then was when you came in.”
Michael silently digests this information. He doesn’t tell Lincoln that he suspects Sara wasn’t any more interested in stretching her legs than she needed Michael to find some water for her. Perhaps it should be difficult to reconcile the Sara Tancredi he knows with the woman he’s just seen deliberating causing pain to another human being, but they’ve all done things they’d never thought they’d have to do. “Have you checked in with Jane?”
Lincoln raises his eyebrows at the abrupt change in subject, but simply nods. “Yeah. Told her what happened with the car and that we’re en route. I’ll call again in two hours.”
“Good.” Michael tries and fails not to look towards the stairs down which in which Sara had disappeared, and he hears his brother sigh.
“Just go after her, man.”
“You sure?” Michael puts his hands on the armrests of his seat, but he doesn’t rise to his feet. In his head, he’s already halfway down those stairs, but he didn’t plan on leaving his brother alone with Kellerman any time soon. Lincoln gives him an exasperated look, and it’s all the encouragement he needs.
It’s not hard to guess where Sara has gone. Feeling a hollow sense of déjà vu - he’s beginning to think they’re doomed to have every important conversation of their lives in a bathroom - he knocks quietly on the door to the washroom. “Sara?”
There’s silence for what feels like a very long time, then finally he hears her voice. “It’s open.”
She’s sitting on the bathroom vanity, her back against the mirror, looking as lost as he’s ever seen her. His hand literally itch with the urge to touch her, comfort her, but he keeps his distance, shutting the door behind him and leaning against the wall a few feet away from her. If nothing else, he’s learned when to push her and when to let her find her own way.
“You okay?”
“Three weeks ago I was a doctor, Michael.” She stares at him, her eyes glittering, then shakes her head in despair. “And not three minutes ago, I would have happily taken a man’s life.”
Oh, Sara. “You can get that back. All of it.” If it took him the rest of his life, he would make sure he was telling her the truth.
“I wish I could believe that.” She takes a deep breath and looks up at him, a bleakness in her eyes that almost breaks his heart. “First do no harm,” she says in a broken whisper. “I look at Kellerman and I want to hurt him.” She closes her eyes. “He was right, Michael. Doctors are supposed to heal, not wound.”
“He gave you no choice.”
She shakes her head. “Maybe the first time, but there’s no excuse for what I just did.”
“What did he say to you upstairs?”
She looks away, and he sees her fingers grip the edge of the vanity. “That he couldn’t believe I was stupid enough to keep risking my life for two people who only ever needed me because of my last name.”
Michael stares at her, a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. “You didn’t believe him?” He doesn’t mean for it to sound like a question, as though he’s not sure of her answer, but suddenly it is a question and maybe he’s not too sure of anything, not anymore.
“Of course not,” she says, perhaps a shade too quickly. “What I did up there, that wasn’t about you.” She takes another deep breath and lifts her eyes to his, meeting his gaze steadily. “I still can’t believe all this has happened.”
He takes a step closer to her. “We get to Washington, we find that tape, we can end this thing.”
She nods, but it’s an almost absentminded gesture. “I need to find the people who killed my dad, Michael.”
“We’ll find them,” he tells her, willing her to believe it, willing himself to believe it.
Her gaze drops, and she stares down at her hands for a long moment. “I, uh, also need to tell you something.”
He sits beside her, careful to leave an inch or two of space between them. There’s a sudden air of quiet determination about her, and again, he knows he needs to let her set the pace. “Sure.”
She opens her mouth, but the only sound that comes out is a breathy, nervous laugh. “I normally wouldn’t, uh -” She hesitates, then closes her eyes, as if that might help her say the words. “The ironic thing is that it’s taken losing my dad for me to realise that I need to- ” She’s flushed now, looking more embarrassed than he’s ever seen her, and a nervous tension begins to coil in the pit of his stomach. “The first thing they tell you when you take the job -” she breaks off yet again, clearing her throat, her head bowing even lower, her voice so soft he has to strain to hear her, “is never fall in love with an inmate.”
He stares at her, almost afraid to believe what she’s just told him. Finally, she looks up at him shyly, expectantly, her heart in her eyes, and he knows the truth of her words. He lifts his hand to her face, no more able to stop himself from leaning forward and kissing her than he could ever stop himself when it came to her.
The kiss is soft and sweet, her lips warm and tender against his. Her lips part, her tongue tangling lazily with his, letting him taste toothpaste and honey and grape-flavoured gum, all of which taste much better than he remembers. It’s a supple, languid exploration that gently warms his blood and tightens his skin, an echo of the kiss they’d shared at the safe house in Gila. This time, though, he wants so much more than a tender affirmation, and he thinks she does, too.
He awkwardly gets to his feet - he can’t bear to stop kissing her, even for the briefest second - bumping her knee with his hip as he moves to stand in front of her. She murmurs something against his mouth, but the words are lost, melting in the heat of a kiss that is slowly becoming less soft and sweet, and something infinitely more dangerous.
He puts his hands on her knees, telling himself it’s for balance aboard the swaying train, but all he can think about is the heat of her skin through the thin material of her sweatpants, her muscles flexing under his touch. He remembers holding her in his arms as they sat huddled in the bottom of a dripping shower stall. He remembers endless legs and damp, smooth skin, the swell of her hips and the high thrust of her breasts barely covered by wet cotton. He remembers lying on a threadbare blanket, his hands and mouth learning the secrets of her body in the darkness, wishing only that he could see her face clearly.
He wants to tell himself that they can’t do this here, not now, but his hands are already sliding around to her back, fisting through her hair, his tongue deep in her mouth, her breasts pressed against his chest and he’s abruptly, painfully hard, so hard that he doesn’t know how there’s enough blood to keep his heart beating.
He lifts his head, trying to drag enough air into his lungs to cool his blood, then Sara is wrapping her arms around his neck, her thighs tightly gripping his hips and they’re frantically kissing as though it’s for the first and last time. She whispers his name, her hands sliding down his stomach, her fingers hooking into the waistband of his khakis with deliberate intent.
Oh, my God.
He’s vaguely aware that the train is following a sharp curve in the track, but the distant squeal of metal on metal gives little warning of the carriage’s sudden lurch. He stumbles against her, and her heels instantly dig into the backs of his knees, pulling him closer until there’s no space between them. The heavy ache of his erection presses hard against the soft warmth between her legs, making him shudder, making him want to tear clothing and zippers and buttons, making him want to press his fingers against all that smooth, white skin, hard enough to leave a mark, his mark.
The rhythmic sound of the train seems to speed up, keeping the beat with his pounding heart. Desperately swimming against the rising tide of hunger, he tears his mouth away from hers, hears himself say the words of a more sensible man. “Maybe we should-”
“Please, Michael.” She murmurs his name, a sigh that skims across his mouth, then she’s running her hands down his chest and underneath his shirt and around to his back. “I need this.” She turns her head, biting the corded muscle in the crook of his neck, her hands sliding downward to cup his bottom, trying to pull him even closer. “I need you.”
He swears vividly in his head, knowing he’s not going to win this battle, knowing that he doesn’t want to win it. He kisses her, hard and deep, lust clawing at his gut as his hands slide over her thighs and her stomach and higher until he’s cupping her breasts in faintly trembling hands. Her nipples tighten at his touch, rising up hard against the softness of her shirt and the skin of his palms, her gasp of pleasure whispering across his tongue as she twists restlessly in his arms.
“Sara -” The guttural sigh rises up in his throat, then she kisses him, stealing his voice and his breath and the will to deny her anything. His hands are underneath her shirt, touching the soft swell of her breasts, warm flesh barely covered by smooth cotton. The smell of her fills his head and he suddenly wants to drop to his knees before her, peel down those damned sweatpants and kiss the pale length of her thighs before burying his face in soft, damp curls and hot flesh, inhaling the scent of her, kissing her there, right there, his mouth filling with the heady taste of heat and salt and desire.
But that’s something he wants to savour, something he wants to keep inside his head until they have time, more time, all the time in the world, with clean white sheets and heated skin washed by a cool breeze through a window they’re not afraid to leave open. So he instead slides his mouth along the curve of her jaw, then the hollow of her throat where her pulse beats wildly beneath his tongue. He hazily rues wasting a perfectly good bed the night before, then he doesn’t care about beds or clean sheets because his hand is dipping between her legs and the heat of her burns his palms through two layers of clothing. His own pulse is hammering - pounding through his head, his heart, his cock - as he presses two fingers against her, touching her the way he remembers she likes to be touched, the way he’d touched her in the darkness, the scent of earth and grass and sex all around them.
His memory serves him well. She gasps, her hips almost lifting off the bench as she arches against his hand, then she’s fumbling with the drawstring of her sweatpants, her breath hot against his neck as she leans into him. He puts his hands over hers, sliding his fingers between cool fabric and warm skin, tugging and pulling until the fabric begins to slide over the swell of her hips. Muttering something under breath that sounds very much like, “Wait, let me just -”, Sara curls her arms around his neck, lifting herself up off the vanity, burying her face against his shoulder as he hooks his thumbs over elastic, tugging down both her underwear and the exercise pants with shaking hands.
Glancing into the mirror behind her, he sees his hands, dark against the pale skin of her delicately curved bottom, and feels the blood leave his brain and head south with a vengeance. He tears his gaze away from their reflection, only to be overwhelmed by the heart-stopping sight of the milky white skin of her thighs, the dark smudge of curls between her legs. The urge to drop to his knees returns ten-fold, but then she’s unzipping his trousers and sliding her hand inside his boxers, wrapping her warm fingers around him. He bites back a groan as he arches into her touch, a tremor running up the backs of his legs, gnawing at the base of his spine, sliding through his gut.
Between them, they manage to do away with the last barrier between them, their hands clumsy with urgency. He should feel ridiculous, he thinks, hiding out in a public bathroom, bare-assed with his trousers around his knees, struck dumb at the mere sight of bare female flesh. But it’s her and it’s them and his hunger for her outweighs any lingering awkwardness.
He doesn’t bother to ask her about protection. He knows there’s a second condom buried in the depths of the handbag on the vanity beside her - he’d seen it the night they used the first one, filing it away in the more hopeful part of his brain. He fumbles with the foil packet, his fingertips suddenly damp with sweat, then her hands are on him, helping him, guiding him, pulling him into her. He watches her face as his body sinks into the tight, lush heat of hers, and he thinks his heart might burst.
“God, Sara -”
She murmurs his name before she kisses him, fierce and hungry and demanding, then they don’t speak. They simply cling to each other, riding out the storm, pushing each other to the brink with an ease that makes his chest burn with the simple task of breathing. The taste of her, the feel of her, warm and eager and alive in his arms - it flows over him like a flash fire, like boiling water being poured over him, blistering his skin, burning him from the inside out.
The back of his shirt is soon damp with sweat, sticking to his skin, and he tastes the salt on the pale length of her throat. Her hands are on his hips, urging him on, while his hands are pushing up her shirt, stroking her belly and her breasts. He desperately wishes she was naked in his arms, naked against him, but his hands eagerly fill in the gaps in his visual catalogue, and her soft gasps of pleasure are more than enough to make him forget his dream of white sheets and cool breezes.
It doesn’t take long for either of them, and soon his hands are on her knees, pushing them up, opening her up to him, thrusting deeper and harder and she’s crying out, her head falling back, her fingernails digging into his shoulders. “God, Michael, I can’t -”
“Yes, you can.” Kissing her hard, he slides his hand between them, one long finger gliding over the slick heat of her, seeking, finding, teasing. Gasping into his mouth, she lifts herself up against him, pushing back against his hand, his body. He twitches his fingers and she bites at his bottom lip, the metallic tang of his blood mingling with the taste of her mouth. He closes his eyes, praying for the strength to endure, then she begins to shudder against him, the silken clasp of her body shivering around him.
Pulling her closer, he gives up, gives in, losing and finding himself in the same heartbeat. Her name falls from his lips as he comes, his whole body arching, his flesh pulsing hotly deep inside her. Her hands cradling his face, she kisses him breathlessly, swallowing his words and his rough groan of release. The floor beneath him shifts once more - maybe it’s the train, maybe it’s not - and he braces his hand flat against the mirror behind her for support, afraid his legs might suddenly collapse beneath him.
“One day,” she murmurs some time later, her damp forehead pressed against his, one hand sliding under his shirt to stroke his back, “we’ll have to try doing this in a bed.”
“Or take longer than five minutes,” he says ruefully, tugging her shirt into some kind of respectability, letting his thumbs brush the underside of her breasts, making her shiver.
She lifts her head and smiles into his eyes, her voice still wispy with the echo of passion. “I like the sound of that.”
His throat tightens. Leaning forward, he kisses her softly, once again tasting a delicate potpourri of grape-flavoured gum, honey and her, dark and sweet and addictive. Lifting his head reluctantly, he touches her face, letting his fingertips trace the curve of her cheek, her sweat-dampened temple. “It’s a date.”
An air of bashfulness seems to come over her as they tidy themselves up - there really is no subtle way to dispose of a condom, he thinks wryly - and he wonders if she’s always shy afterwards. The thought of finding out for himself, preferably over a very long period of time, makes his mouth curve in a slow smile, and she catches his eye. “What?”
He briefly debates sharing his thoughts, if only to see that intriguing blush creep over her pale skin, but he decides to leave it alone for now. “Nothing,” he tells her, pressing a quick kiss to the top of her head. He’d like nothing more than to stay in this room and pretend they’re a normal couple who’ve simply sneaked away for a few moment’s privacy, but he knows they can’t. Not when Lincoln is having to deal with whatever bullshit Kellerman might be spinning him. “Maybe we should get back upstairs?”
Something that looks a lot like disappointment flashes in her eyes, but she nods readily enough. “I’ll be there in a minute.” The message is unspoken but unmistakable, and he hastily gives her some space.
Lincoln gives him a lingering look when he returns to the carriage, and Michael flushes, feeling as though the events of the last fifteen minutes are tattooed on his forehead. His brother says nothing as he quirks one eyebrow, but his knowing smirk speaks volumes. Michael doesn’t bother looking at Kellerman.
Sara reappears a few minutes later, her face faintly glowing and her gaze not quite meeting his. She slides into the seat diagonally across from him, and he leans forward, trying to catch her eyes with his. “You okay?”
She nods, but the full curve of her mouth is tight with an emotion at which he can’t even begin to guess. “I’m good.” Putting her feet up on the chair beside him, she crosses her arms over her chest and closes her eyes, obviously intent on resting. Michael stares at her, puzzled by her apparent change in mood, then he knows and instantly berates himself for being an oblivious fool.
The first thing they tell you when you take the job is never fall in love with an inmate.
She had talked of love, laid her heart bare for him to see. He had loved her with his body, but not with his words, and while he can’t believe she’d still have any doubts as to how he feels about her, he’s not prepared to take that chance. He’s been waiting for the perfect moment, he realises suddenly, but he knows now that the perfect moment may never come.
He glances over his shoulder. Kellerman is staring out the window. Lincoln is dozing once more. Leaning forward, he touches Sara gently on the arm, letting his hand linger. “Sara?” She opens her eyes, but makes no move to unfold her arms, her defensive body language screamingly obvious. He glances around the carriage once more, then slides his hand along her arm until his fingers find the soft skin of her wrist.
She looks at him, saying nothing, but he sees the distance receding from her dark eyes, feel the skip of her pulse beneath his fingertips. He swallows hard, trying to remember the last time he’d said these particular words to anyone outside his family, trying to remember the last time he’d wanted to say them to anyone outside his family. Over his shoulder he hears Lincoln coughing, the sound of Kellerman getting to his feet and restlessly pacing the aisle, and he knows that their private moment is gone, snatched away like so many other moments between them.
“We’ll be making a stop in La Junta in about five minutes,” Kellerman announces from the other end of the carriage. “Could we assume our positions, do you think?”
Michael ignores him. “About before -” he says quietly, holding Sara’s gaze with his, not letting her look away. He slides his hand into hers, the soft skin of her palm warm against his fingertips. “Me too.”
It’s completely inadequate, but it’s the best he can do with two pairs of ears listening to them. Her mouth falls open, just a little, her eyelids fluttering as she blinks slowly once, then twice. He holds his breath, suddenly afraid he’d somehow misconstrued her words, then she gives him a smile as warm as the sun streaming through the window.
“Once again, how about it, kids?” Kellerman snaps, but the words barely out of his mouth before Lincoln is talking right over the top of him.
“How about shutting the fuck up, jackass?”
Michael looks at Sara, once again feeling the sudden and ridiculous urge to grin. She shakes her head, her mouth twitching with the hint of a smile, patting him on the knee as she gets to her feet and moves to sit towards the back of the carriage. Michael watches her as she walks away, unable to stop himself studying the gentle sway of her hips, then Kellerman’s jacket is unceremoniously flung into his face.
“Show time, Scofield.”
Michael looks up at Kellerman, once again counting down the hours until they can part company. “Sure thing,” he mutters, draping the jacket over his supposedly cuffed hands. “Boss,” he adds on a sudden perverse whim he doesn’t bother to resist.
Kellerman blinks, then drops into Sara’s vacated seat with a decided air of annoyance. “See this? This is why I prefer to work alone.”
“Really?” Michael studies the red marks on Kellerman’s throat, the streaks of blood on his shirt front, then gives the other man his most insincere smile, the smile he once kept exclusively for Brad Bellick. “I can’t imagine why.”
~*~
Only a few days ago, Michael had decided that driving for hours across the country was unbearably tedious. It takes just over twenty-four hours to travel from Albuquerque to Chicago by train, and he knows now that he will never complain about a long car journey ever again. In other circumstances, perhaps he may have even enjoyed such a leisurely train ride, appreciated the ever-changing scenery, the well-appointed dining car and that old-fashioned sense of adventure without having to leave his air-conditioned comfort. Maybe some day, Michael thinks darkly as he does his best to stretch the stiffness out of his back, but not today.
The train weaves its way through five different states, taking them from early morning through to evening, then through the long night. After a quick consensus that trips to the dining car would be too risky, Sara digs into Michael’s battered duffle bag every few hours. She doles out their rapidly dwindling stash of snack food - that first hotel room seems like a thousand years ago now - and once again Michael is astounded at her resilience as she tosses a packet of chips and a candy bar to her former kidnapper. Granted, from a certain angle it may have looked as though she was aiming for Kellerman’s head, but Michael decides to give her the benefit of the doubt. She’s still furious - he sees it in her eyes and the stiff lines of her posture - but it’s as though her outburst has helped her push it right down, help her bear to be in the same room without giving in to her anger.
The conductor knocks on the connecting door every few hours - causing a hasty reconfiguration of passenger positions each time - anxiously checking to see if Kellerman ‘needs anything’. After the third visit, Kellerman barely opens the door an inch. “Look, I appreciate your concern, but this isn’t going to work. I need to focus 110% on my prisoner, and I can’t do that when you keep coming in here distracting me.”
The other man apologises, his affronted gaze resting on Michael as though having a convicted felon on his respectable train is a personal insult. “I’m sorry, sir, I just wanted to make sure all was well.”
Kellerman smiles warmly. “It is. Once we’re in Chicago, we’ll be off your hands and you’ll have a good story to tell all your friends.”
“Of course.” The conductor all but tips his cap, and Michael feels the sudden urge to roll his eyes. It’s all too easy to see how Kellerman had charmed Sara, even if he had to resort to the cliché of new gay best friend to do it, and the thought of what might had happened if they hadn’t managed to pull her out of that Chicago alleyway still makes his stomach churn.
Sometime in the early afternoon, Kellerman produces a deck of cards, lobbing them to Lincoln without a word. The three of them - Kellerman makes no move to join them, a wise decision as far as Michael’s concerned - play hand after hand of desultory gin rummy. Michael catches his brother’s eye over the top of his dealt hand several times, and he knows he’s not the only one thinking of the last time they’d played cards. It’s hard to believe that only a few months have passed since he and Vee were sitting in the visitation room at Fox River, waiting for Lincoln to be taken away from them.
Even harder to make himself believe that Vee is gone.
Michael’s fingers tighten on the plastic coated playing cards in his grip as every memory he has of Veronica - the good, the bad and everything in between - is suddenly floods into his head, making his throat feel tight and hot, making him feel like he can’t breathe. Shit. He hasn’t let himself say her name, hasn’t pushed Lincoln to talk about her, and now he knows why, because just thinking about her makes him want to smash his fist through the nearest wall, and he can’t begin to fathom how Lincoln must feel.
As if his thoughts have kept pace with Michael’s, his brother slaps his cards down on the seat beside him and gets to his feet. “I’m out.” He walks quickly down the aisle towards the bathroom, his head bowed, his wide shoulders slumped, and Michael knows better than to go after him.
The numbers and painted faces on the cards in his hand begin to blur. He sucks in a sharp breath, blinking away the urge to let himself crumble. He feels the touch of Sara’s hand on his arm, the soft press of her knee against his. “This is never really going to be over, is it?”
Her voice is calm, but in her eyes he sees a reflection of his own grief, his own sorrow. He puts his hand over hers - the antique silver ring on her finger presses into his palm, a foreign yet familiar touch - and reminds himself of his vow to always tell her the truth. “I don’t know.”
~*~
Some time after midnight, Sara is asleep in the seat beside him, one long leg curled up underneath her, her head lolling on his shoulder. He cannot resist the impulse to turn his head, letting his lips brush her forehead. The lingering scent of lemon soap on her skin, instantly takes him back to the bathroom downstairs, to the feel of her, the taste of her, the sound of her breathing his name as her control shattered into pieces. His whole body tightens, and it’s all he can do not to slide his arm around her shoulders, thread his hands through the soft cloud of auburn hair -
Damn it. He closes his eyes, telling himself that this is not helping, that he needs to stay focused and he can’t do that if he’s thinking with anything other than his head. Gently easing himself away from her, he makes sure that her head is now pillowed on the head rest, then gets to his feet, making his way down the aisle towards his brother.
“You okay?”
Lincoln is staring out the window at the darkness. He hasn’t spoken more than half a dozen words since he’d walked away from their card game, and just looking at him makes Michael’s heart ache. They both have to keep moving forward, not let themselves get themselves get trapped in the mire of their mistakes, but that’s easier said than done.
Lincoln doesn’t look at him as he speaks. “What if this is nothing more than wild goose chase? What if all we find is packet of imported tea leaves?”
Michael slides into the seat across the aisle. “Then we’ll think of something else.”
Lincoln turns his head, his expression one Michael remembers all too well from their childhood, an ‘are you for real?’ look that manages to be affectionate and pissed off at the same time. “You never give up, do you?”
Feeling strangely embarrassed, Michael shrugs. “I like to finish what I start.”
Lincoln glances towards the other end of the carriage, towards Sara. “So I’ve noticed.” There’s the faintest hint of resentment in his voice, and Michael feels himself flush.
“I’m sorry.”
His brother frowns. “Why?”
“That Sara is here and Veronica isn’t.” The words - the ones that normally stay safely in his head - come out of his mouth in a thoughtless rush before he can stop them. He wants to bite his tongue but it’s too late, the words are out there now and Lincoln’s face is carved from stone, his eyes dark with grief.
“Not your fault.”
Michael sucks in a deep breath, once again feeling that same painful pressure across his chest. “Isn’t it?”
“Don’t do this, Michael.” Lincoln shakes his head, his words rough and sharp. “What’s done is done and there’s not a fucking thing we can do to change any of it.” There’s a finality in his tone that tells Michael that the discussion is over, and Michael can’t help but feel relieved. “Look, if this doesn’t work out -” Lincoln begins hesitantly, glancing again towards the front of the carriage.
“It will.”
“In case it doesn’t,” his brother insists, staring at him as though he might disappear at any second. “Thank you.”
There’s a lump in Michael’s throat the size of a fist. He remembers their desperate flight through the woods surrounding Fox River, the dogs at their heels, adrenalin pumping through his blood like a drug. He remembers Lincoln grabbing his arm, wasting time they didn’t have to spare, gasping out almost the same exact words.
Back then, Michael had cut him off, telling him it was okay, and then they were running again, fear clawing at their backs. It feels good to actually hear the words, much better than he thought it would. Despite the darkness of his thoughts, he smiles, suddenly feeling as though anything might be possible. “Any time.”
~*~
Fandom: Prison Break
Pairing: Sara Tancredi/Michael Scofield
Other Characters: Lincoln Burrows, Paul Kellerman
Length: 7,548 words
Rating: NC-17. Not for the kiddies.
Summary: The words safe house conjure up a picture of a dark and fortified hideout, certainly not this plain but clean wooden house in the outer suburbs.Spoilers for Season One and Season Two. Pretty much AU from "Scan" onwards, but it also uses some events from "First Down", "Sub-Division", "Buried", "Bolshoi Booze", "Disconnect" and "Chicago". I think you could call this an AU with canon overtones. Anything that you recognise from canon is not mine. Many thanks to sk56 for the beta and the Aussie Girls for the cheerleading. Special mention to foxriver_lady and sarah_scribbles for helping me 'while away' the long train journey - the playing cards were inspired. *g* This story is part of a series, the rest of which you can find here.
~*~
A few minutes later, they’ve removed their belongings from the car and wiped down every hard surface with the last of the baby wipes from Michael’s duffel bag. Shrugging into a backpack, Kellerman watches Michael wipe down the handle of Sara’s door, then sighs loudly. “If the fieldtrip is finally ready to move?”
Lincoln gives him a dour look, but only says, “After you.”
Somehow managing a smile that doubles as a snarl, Kellerman turns away and begins to walk, leading them back the way they’d come.
Lincoln looks at Michael. “This should be fun,” he deadpans, and Michael feels the ridiculous urge to chuckle bubbling up in his throat.
“Hmm.” He hefts his bag over his shoulder, catching Sara’s eye as he does. “Right up there with having my toes sliced off, I suspect.”
Sara ducks her head, but not before he sees her grin. They start trudging after Lincoln, who is keeping a careful arm’s reach distance behind Kellerman. Feeling the hot sun on the back of his neck, Michael gives into a sudden impulse, pulling off his cap and dropping it onto Sara’s head. She looks up, startled, then tugs the brim down over her eyes. “Thanks.”
He smiles at Sara, his heart suddenly feeling as though it’s too large for his chest, and wonders why it’s always the little things that make you realise how much you have to lose. “You’re welcome.”
They walk for several minutes in silence. Michael keeps his eyes on his brother and their unwanted tour guide, and can’t help noticing Kellerman’s faintly uneven gait. “Hey, Linc?”
His brother turns around, waiting for them to catch up. When they do, Michael jerks his head towards Kellerman and gives Lincoln a dour smile. “Looks like your aim was a little off.”
Lincoln watches the other man as he walks ahead of them, clearly favouring his right leg, then snorts. “Should’ve backed over him while I had the chance.”
Beside Michael, Sara blows out an audible breath. “I can’t believe you didn’t.”
“That would be my fault,” Michael tells her, suddenly wishing he hadn’t started this line of conversation. “I told Linc to try not to kill him.”
She gives him a fleeting of smile - of amusement? Forgiveness? He’s not sure - then she pulls the brim of his cap lower over her eyes. “Well, you know what they say. Hindsight’s a bitch,” she mutters wearily.
Michael glowers at Kellerman’s back. “Definitely.”
~*~
Walking quickly under the hot sun, it takes twenty-five minutes to reach the train station, and with every crunch of his boots on the dirt Michael tells himself that they’re one step closer to swinging in a hammock for the next twenty years. The thought has him casting a glance at Sara, assailed by a sudden feeling of uncertainty. Lincoln may have laughed at the idea of a dive shop, but Michael knows that once the dust has settled, anywhere he and LJ might find some peace will be a good place.
Sara is different. She’s used to being with people, helping people. They may have joked about the guest room in his mythical beach house, but he really has no idea how she’d feel about spending the next few years cooling her heels on a foreign beach. He could ask her now, of course, but that feels a little too much like tempting fate. Later, he decides, telling himself that his procrastination has nothing to do with being afraid of her answer.
When they finally arrive at the station, Lincoln looks at the surprisingly crowded platform, then at Michael. “What’s the plan?”
Kellerman smiles. “You leave that to me.”
“No offence,” Michael tells him dryly, “but I don’t think so.”
The other man lifts his eyebrows. “Anyone would think you didn’t trust me.”
“They’d be right.”
Kellerman returns his gaze with studied nonchalance, then pulls his FBI identification out of his back pocket. “I’ll break it down so we’re all on the same page, shall I?” he asks in a sing-song voice, as though Michael is five years old. “I’m the FBI agent, and you’re my prisoner.” He glances at Lincoln and Sara in turn. “Once we’re on board in our nice private carriage, you two will be joining us.”
Michael nods reluctantly, knowing it’s the best chance they’ve got, hating that agreeing makes it appear as though Kellerman is calling the shots. Unfortunately, right here and now, they have no other choice. “Fine.”
As he takes a step towards Kellerman, Sara curls her fingers into the cuff of his sweatshirt, not taking his hand but not letting him go, either. “Be careful,” she says quietly, not looking at him, and it’s all he can do not to thread his fingers through hers.
“I will.”
“Very touching.” Michael turns to see Kellerman watching them with undisguised scorn. “While we’re young?” Shrugging out of his jacket, he gestures to Michael to come closer. “Link your hands together.”
Michael does as he asks, then Kellerman drapes his jacket over the cradle of Michael’s linked hands. “Voila.” His smile is mocking. “Instant handcuffs.”
“I’m impressed.”
Kellerman tilts his head to one side, still smiling, and Michael wants nothing more than to punch it right off his mouth. “Of course you are.”
~*~
The stationmaster stares at Kellerman, looking remarkably composed for a man who’s just been informed he’s about to have a captured felon boarding one of his trains. “What’s he in for?”
Kellerman sighs loudly. “Killing people?”
“Uh, I’ll see what I can do.” The stationmaster’s composure is replaced by panic in the blink of an eye, and Michael is shoved right back to the First Bank of Chicago and the female teller whose voice shook with fear, to Fox River and Sara looking at him as though she didn’t recognise him, Henry Pope’s stricken expression as he realised just how thoroughly his trust had been betrayed.
I’m not going to hurt you, he wants to tell the man. He doesn’t, of course.
Kellerman’s plan works. Five minutes later he and Michael are climbing into a now empty carriage, and Michael tries not to think that this is going to be one favour the other man won’t hesitate to call in. Completely ignoring Kellerman's wordless direction as to where he is to sit, he chooses a window seat in the middle of the carriage. From there he sees Lincoln and Sara through the glass, sitting together on a metal bench, and even from this distance he can see that Lincoln is doing all the talking. He half-smiles at the thought of his brother being the chatty one in any situation, then Kellerman is moving towards the rear door of the carriage. “Time to get the kids, I guess.”
Michael looks down at the jacket that is still covering his hands, and the thought of having a piece of Kellerman’s clothing touching him suddenly makes his skin crawl. He tosses it at the other man as he passes, and the metal zipper hits the middle of his chest with satisfying force. Kellerman’s steady stride misses a step, then he rolls his eyes and keeps walking. Michael sprawls in his seat, feeling unrepentantly churlish. He hears Kellerman whistle - like he’s calling a stray dog, Michael thinks darkly - then Lincoln is walking down the centre aisle and dropping into a window seat at the end of the carriage.
He’s oddly pleased when Sara sinks into the seat opposite him, her knee bumping against his. Perhaps it would be safer if she sat away from him, out of sight, but he’s not about to suggest it. She gives him a quick smile when he catches her eye. “Do you want your cap back?”
He grins. “No, keep it. Looks better on you.” A faint hint of pink colours her face, then she tugs the brim of the cap lower over her eyes and slouches down in her seat.
Time drags. The heat of the sun is diffused by the thick windows, turning it into a pleasant wash of warmth that induces drowsiness. At the other end of the carriage, Lincoln is dozing, his cap tilted back on his head. Michael spends the time either watching the scenery through the window or watching Sara. It worries him how often her gaze strays to Kellerman, how her expression becomes remote and hardened every time she looks at him. Her face softens whenever Michael catches her gaze, but he can feel the tension in her, and once again wonders if the price of Kellerman’s help is too high. He thinks of everything she told him about that hotel room in Broken Arrow, everything Kellerman had done to her, and he begins counting down the hours until they can part company with their uninvited travel companion.
Four hours into their journey, Sara shifts in her seat restlessly, then leans forward to whisper his name. “Michael? Do you know where I could get some water?”
He considers the question for a few seconds, then nods. “I think there’s a bathroom downstairs.” She moves as if she’s about to stand, but he puts his hand on her knee, wondering just when he’d reached the point of using any small excuse to touch her. “I’ll go check.” He stretches each leg as he stands, slightly numb from sitting in the one spot for so long, then makes his way down the aisle. Kellerman doesn’t look at him as he passes, but Michael makes a point of glancing over his shoulder at Lincoln. His brother may look as though he’s dozing, but three years in Fox River makes a man a very light sleeper.
Michael is at the bottom of the internal stairs when he remembers that not only are there two bottles of water in the duffle bag under his seat, but that Sara actually packed them only a few hour ago. He thinks of the way she’s been looking at Kellerman, the tension that’s been literally humming through her, and his trip to the bathroom suddenly makes terrible sense.
He turns around, taking two steps at a time, angry with himself for being so easily distracted. He flings open the carriage door to find his fears come to life in a grim tableau. Kellerman is slumped in his seat, one leg sticking awkwardly out into the aisle. Sara is standing behind him, one hand digging into the artery just below his jaw, the other clawing at the burn on his chest. Kellerman’s hands are wrapped tightly around her wrists, his face white with pain.
“How’s that burn, Paul?” Her jaw clenches as she digs her fingernails into his chest, her dark eyes narrowed with anger. “Still tender, I bet.”
“Sara!” He shouts her name the same time Lincoln does, the word echoing around the carriage. Darting forward, he wraps his arms around her, pulling her backwards as Lincoln pulls her hands away from Kellerman’s neck. She writhes in his arms, her whole body rigid with fury, her feet scrambling to find purchase as she fights to get away from him.
Tightening his arms around her, he puts his mouth to her ear in a desperate attempt to cut through the red haze he knows has gripped her. “Settle down!”
Kellerman is standing now, one hand to his throat. “Crazy bitch!” he mutters, but he makes no move towards her. Lincoln releases his grip on Kellerman’s arm, but hovers between the two separated combatants. Kellerman shakes his head, a half-smile touching his lips, then he lunges across the back of his seat, his eyes wide with furious intent.
Michael jerks Sara backwards as his brother drops his shoulder and brings Kellerman’s attack to an abrupt standstill. Thwarted, Kellerman stares at Sara over Lincoln’s shoulder, looking at her as though he’s trying to work out the best way to slit her throat without getting blood on his jacket. “If she tries that again-”
One arm still curled tightly around Sara’s waist - he can feel the violent hammering of her heart against his chest - Michael stares at him. “You’ll do what?”
Kellerman doesn’t answer him. Instead he glances down at the bloody streaks now seeping through his shirt, then up at Sara with mocking disbelief. “I think you need to work on your bedside manner, doctor.”
“We all do what we have to do, Paul,” she practically snarls at him, then she’s pulling away from Michael and slamming the car door behind her, vanishing down the stairs that lead to the bathroom. Michael stands helpless in the middle of the aisle, torn between following her and wrapping his hands around Kellerman’s throat and taking over where she left off.
In the end, he does neither. He watches in silence as Lincoln snarlingly tells Kellerman to keep to his side of the car, then moves to sit next to his brother. “What the hell just happened?”
Lincoln levels a glare across the car towards Kellerman, then leans closer to Michael, keeping his voice low. “Crazy stuff. The Doc got up to stretch her legs and he got up too. Said something to her when she went past him and she kicked him, stuck her boot right into the knee of his bad leg.” He suddenly grins, as if replaying the sight in his head, and Michael can’t help wishing he’d been there to witness it himself. “He went down like a sack of potatoes, and she went for him.” He looks at Michael. “Right about then was when you came in.”
Michael silently digests this information. He doesn’t tell Lincoln that he suspects Sara wasn’t any more interested in stretching her legs than she needed Michael to find some water for her. Perhaps it should be difficult to reconcile the Sara Tancredi he knows with the woman he’s just seen deliberating causing pain to another human being, but they’ve all done things they’d never thought they’d have to do. “Have you checked in with Jane?”
Lincoln raises his eyebrows at the abrupt change in subject, but simply nods. “Yeah. Told her what happened with the car and that we’re en route. I’ll call again in two hours.”
“Good.” Michael tries and fails not to look towards the stairs down which in which Sara had disappeared, and he hears his brother sigh.
“Just go after her, man.”
“You sure?” Michael puts his hands on the armrests of his seat, but he doesn’t rise to his feet. In his head, he’s already halfway down those stairs, but he didn’t plan on leaving his brother alone with Kellerman any time soon. Lincoln gives him an exasperated look, and it’s all the encouragement he needs.
It’s not hard to guess where Sara has gone. Feeling a hollow sense of déjà vu - he’s beginning to think they’re doomed to have every important conversation of their lives in a bathroom - he knocks quietly on the door to the washroom. “Sara?”
There’s silence for what feels like a very long time, then finally he hears her voice. “It’s open.”
She’s sitting on the bathroom vanity, her back against the mirror, looking as lost as he’s ever seen her. His hand literally itch with the urge to touch her, comfort her, but he keeps his distance, shutting the door behind him and leaning against the wall a few feet away from her. If nothing else, he’s learned when to push her and when to let her find her own way.
“You okay?”
“Three weeks ago I was a doctor, Michael.” She stares at him, her eyes glittering, then shakes her head in despair. “And not three minutes ago, I would have happily taken a man’s life.”
Oh, Sara. “You can get that back. All of it.” If it took him the rest of his life, he would make sure he was telling her the truth.
“I wish I could believe that.” She takes a deep breath and looks up at him, a bleakness in her eyes that almost breaks his heart. “First do no harm,” she says in a broken whisper. “I look at Kellerman and I want to hurt him.” She closes her eyes. “He was right, Michael. Doctors are supposed to heal, not wound.”
“He gave you no choice.”
She shakes her head. “Maybe the first time, but there’s no excuse for what I just did.”
“What did he say to you upstairs?”
She looks away, and he sees her fingers grip the edge of the vanity. “That he couldn’t believe I was stupid enough to keep risking my life for two people who only ever needed me because of my last name.”
Michael stares at her, a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. “You didn’t believe him?” He doesn’t mean for it to sound like a question, as though he’s not sure of her answer, but suddenly it is a question and maybe he’s not too sure of anything, not anymore.
“Of course not,” she says, perhaps a shade too quickly. “What I did up there, that wasn’t about you.” She takes another deep breath and lifts her eyes to his, meeting his gaze steadily. “I still can’t believe all this has happened.”
He takes a step closer to her. “We get to Washington, we find that tape, we can end this thing.”
She nods, but it’s an almost absentminded gesture. “I need to find the people who killed my dad, Michael.”
“We’ll find them,” he tells her, willing her to believe it, willing himself to believe it.
Her gaze drops, and she stares down at her hands for a long moment. “I, uh, also need to tell you something.”
He sits beside her, careful to leave an inch or two of space between them. There’s a sudden air of quiet determination about her, and again, he knows he needs to let her set the pace. “Sure.”
She opens her mouth, but the only sound that comes out is a breathy, nervous laugh. “I normally wouldn’t, uh -” She hesitates, then closes her eyes, as if that might help her say the words. “The ironic thing is that it’s taken losing my dad for me to realise that I need to- ” She’s flushed now, looking more embarrassed than he’s ever seen her, and a nervous tension begins to coil in the pit of his stomach. “The first thing they tell you when you take the job -” she breaks off yet again, clearing her throat, her head bowing even lower, her voice so soft he has to strain to hear her, “is never fall in love with an inmate.”
He stares at her, almost afraid to believe what she’s just told him. Finally, she looks up at him shyly, expectantly, her heart in her eyes, and he knows the truth of her words. He lifts his hand to her face, no more able to stop himself from leaning forward and kissing her than he could ever stop himself when it came to her.
The kiss is soft and sweet, her lips warm and tender against his. Her lips part, her tongue tangling lazily with his, letting him taste toothpaste and honey and grape-flavoured gum, all of which taste much better than he remembers. It’s a supple, languid exploration that gently warms his blood and tightens his skin, an echo of the kiss they’d shared at the safe house in Gila. This time, though, he wants so much more than a tender affirmation, and he thinks she does, too.
He awkwardly gets to his feet - he can’t bear to stop kissing her, even for the briefest second - bumping her knee with his hip as he moves to stand in front of her. She murmurs something against his mouth, but the words are lost, melting in the heat of a kiss that is slowly becoming less soft and sweet, and something infinitely more dangerous.
He puts his hands on her knees, telling himself it’s for balance aboard the swaying train, but all he can think about is the heat of her skin through the thin material of her sweatpants, her muscles flexing under his touch. He remembers holding her in his arms as they sat huddled in the bottom of a dripping shower stall. He remembers endless legs and damp, smooth skin, the swell of her hips and the high thrust of her breasts barely covered by wet cotton. He remembers lying on a threadbare blanket, his hands and mouth learning the secrets of her body in the darkness, wishing only that he could see her face clearly.
He wants to tell himself that they can’t do this here, not now, but his hands are already sliding around to her back, fisting through her hair, his tongue deep in her mouth, her breasts pressed against his chest and he’s abruptly, painfully hard, so hard that he doesn’t know how there’s enough blood to keep his heart beating.
He lifts his head, trying to drag enough air into his lungs to cool his blood, then Sara is wrapping her arms around his neck, her thighs tightly gripping his hips and they’re frantically kissing as though it’s for the first and last time. She whispers his name, her hands sliding down his stomach, her fingers hooking into the waistband of his khakis with deliberate intent.
Oh, my God.
He’s vaguely aware that the train is following a sharp curve in the track, but the distant squeal of metal on metal gives little warning of the carriage’s sudden lurch. He stumbles against her, and her heels instantly dig into the backs of his knees, pulling him closer until there’s no space between them. The heavy ache of his erection presses hard against the soft warmth between her legs, making him shudder, making him want to tear clothing and zippers and buttons, making him want to press his fingers against all that smooth, white skin, hard enough to leave a mark, his mark.
The rhythmic sound of the train seems to speed up, keeping the beat with his pounding heart. Desperately swimming against the rising tide of hunger, he tears his mouth away from hers, hears himself say the words of a more sensible man. “Maybe we should-”
“Please, Michael.” She murmurs his name, a sigh that skims across his mouth, then she’s running her hands down his chest and underneath his shirt and around to his back. “I need this.” She turns her head, biting the corded muscle in the crook of his neck, her hands sliding downward to cup his bottom, trying to pull him even closer. “I need you.”
He swears vividly in his head, knowing he’s not going to win this battle, knowing that he doesn’t want to win it. He kisses her, hard and deep, lust clawing at his gut as his hands slide over her thighs and her stomach and higher until he’s cupping her breasts in faintly trembling hands. Her nipples tighten at his touch, rising up hard against the softness of her shirt and the skin of his palms, her gasp of pleasure whispering across his tongue as she twists restlessly in his arms.
“Sara -” The guttural sigh rises up in his throat, then she kisses him, stealing his voice and his breath and the will to deny her anything. His hands are underneath her shirt, touching the soft swell of her breasts, warm flesh barely covered by smooth cotton. The smell of her fills his head and he suddenly wants to drop to his knees before her, peel down those damned sweatpants and kiss the pale length of her thighs before burying his face in soft, damp curls and hot flesh, inhaling the scent of her, kissing her there, right there, his mouth filling with the heady taste of heat and salt and desire.
But that’s something he wants to savour, something he wants to keep inside his head until they have time, more time, all the time in the world, with clean white sheets and heated skin washed by a cool breeze through a window they’re not afraid to leave open. So he instead slides his mouth along the curve of her jaw, then the hollow of her throat where her pulse beats wildly beneath his tongue. He hazily rues wasting a perfectly good bed the night before, then he doesn’t care about beds or clean sheets because his hand is dipping between her legs and the heat of her burns his palms through two layers of clothing. His own pulse is hammering - pounding through his head, his heart, his cock - as he presses two fingers against her, touching her the way he remembers she likes to be touched, the way he’d touched her in the darkness, the scent of earth and grass and sex all around them.
His memory serves him well. She gasps, her hips almost lifting off the bench as she arches against his hand, then she’s fumbling with the drawstring of her sweatpants, her breath hot against his neck as she leans into him. He puts his hands over hers, sliding his fingers between cool fabric and warm skin, tugging and pulling until the fabric begins to slide over the swell of her hips. Muttering something under breath that sounds very much like, “Wait, let me just -”, Sara curls her arms around his neck, lifting herself up off the vanity, burying her face against his shoulder as he hooks his thumbs over elastic, tugging down both her underwear and the exercise pants with shaking hands.
Glancing into the mirror behind her, he sees his hands, dark against the pale skin of her delicately curved bottom, and feels the blood leave his brain and head south with a vengeance. He tears his gaze away from their reflection, only to be overwhelmed by the heart-stopping sight of the milky white skin of her thighs, the dark smudge of curls between her legs. The urge to drop to his knees returns ten-fold, but then she’s unzipping his trousers and sliding her hand inside his boxers, wrapping her warm fingers around him. He bites back a groan as he arches into her touch, a tremor running up the backs of his legs, gnawing at the base of his spine, sliding through his gut.
Between them, they manage to do away with the last barrier between them, their hands clumsy with urgency. He should feel ridiculous, he thinks, hiding out in a public bathroom, bare-assed with his trousers around his knees, struck dumb at the mere sight of bare female flesh. But it’s her and it’s them and his hunger for her outweighs any lingering awkwardness.
He doesn’t bother to ask her about protection. He knows there’s a second condom buried in the depths of the handbag on the vanity beside her - he’d seen it the night they used the first one, filing it away in the more hopeful part of his brain. He fumbles with the foil packet, his fingertips suddenly damp with sweat, then her hands are on him, helping him, guiding him, pulling him into her. He watches her face as his body sinks into the tight, lush heat of hers, and he thinks his heart might burst.
“God, Sara -”
She murmurs his name before she kisses him, fierce and hungry and demanding, then they don’t speak. They simply cling to each other, riding out the storm, pushing each other to the brink with an ease that makes his chest burn with the simple task of breathing. The taste of her, the feel of her, warm and eager and alive in his arms - it flows over him like a flash fire, like boiling water being poured over him, blistering his skin, burning him from the inside out.
The back of his shirt is soon damp with sweat, sticking to his skin, and he tastes the salt on the pale length of her throat. Her hands are on his hips, urging him on, while his hands are pushing up her shirt, stroking her belly and her breasts. He desperately wishes she was naked in his arms, naked against him, but his hands eagerly fill in the gaps in his visual catalogue, and her soft gasps of pleasure are more than enough to make him forget his dream of white sheets and cool breezes.
It doesn’t take long for either of them, and soon his hands are on her knees, pushing them up, opening her up to him, thrusting deeper and harder and she’s crying out, her head falling back, her fingernails digging into his shoulders. “God, Michael, I can’t -”
“Yes, you can.” Kissing her hard, he slides his hand between them, one long finger gliding over the slick heat of her, seeking, finding, teasing. Gasping into his mouth, she lifts herself up against him, pushing back against his hand, his body. He twitches his fingers and she bites at his bottom lip, the metallic tang of his blood mingling with the taste of her mouth. He closes his eyes, praying for the strength to endure, then she begins to shudder against him, the silken clasp of her body shivering around him.
Pulling her closer, he gives up, gives in, losing and finding himself in the same heartbeat. Her name falls from his lips as he comes, his whole body arching, his flesh pulsing hotly deep inside her. Her hands cradling his face, she kisses him breathlessly, swallowing his words and his rough groan of release. The floor beneath him shifts once more - maybe it’s the train, maybe it’s not - and he braces his hand flat against the mirror behind her for support, afraid his legs might suddenly collapse beneath him.
“One day,” she murmurs some time later, her damp forehead pressed against his, one hand sliding under his shirt to stroke his back, “we’ll have to try doing this in a bed.”
“Or take longer than five minutes,” he says ruefully, tugging her shirt into some kind of respectability, letting his thumbs brush the underside of her breasts, making her shiver.
She lifts her head and smiles into his eyes, her voice still wispy with the echo of passion. “I like the sound of that.”
His throat tightens. Leaning forward, he kisses her softly, once again tasting a delicate potpourri of grape-flavoured gum, honey and her, dark and sweet and addictive. Lifting his head reluctantly, he touches her face, letting his fingertips trace the curve of her cheek, her sweat-dampened temple. “It’s a date.”
An air of bashfulness seems to come over her as they tidy themselves up - there really is no subtle way to dispose of a condom, he thinks wryly - and he wonders if she’s always shy afterwards. The thought of finding out for himself, preferably over a very long period of time, makes his mouth curve in a slow smile, and she catches his eye. “What?”
He briefly debates sharing his thoughts, if only to see that intriguing blush creep over her pale skin, but he decides to leave it alone for now. “Nothing,” he tells her, pressing a quick kiss to the top of her head. He’d like nothing more than to stay in this room and pretend they’re a normal couple who’ve simply sneaked away for a few moment’s privacy, but he knows they can’t. Not when Lincoln is having to deal with whatever bullshit Kellerman might be spinning him. “Maybe we should get back upstairs?”
Something that looks a lot like disappointment flashes in her eyes, but she nods readily enough. “I’ll be there in a minute.” The message is unspoken but unmistakable, and he hastily gives her some space.
Lincoln gives him a lingering look when he returns to the carriage, and Michael flushes, feeling as though the events of the last fifteen minutes are tattooed on his forehead. His brother says nothing as he quirks one eyebrow, but his knowing smirk speaks volumes. Michael doesn’t bother looking at Kellerman.
Sara reappears a few minutes later, her face faintly glowing and her gaze not quite meeting his. She slides into the seat diagonally across from him, and he leans forward, trying to catch her eyes with his. “You okay?”
She nods, but the full curve of her mouth is tight with an emotion at which he can’t even begin to guess. “I’m good.” Putting her feet up on the chair beside him, she crosses her arms over her chest and closes her eyes, obviously intent on resting. Michael stares at her, puzzled by her apparent change in mood, then he knows and instantly berates himself for being an oblivious fool.
The first thing they tell you when you take the job is never fall in love with an inmate.
She had talked of love, laid her heart bare for him to see. He had loved her with his body, but not with his words, and while he can’t believe she’d still have any doubts as to how he feels about her, he’s not prepared to take that chance. He’s been waiting for the perfect moment, he realises suddenly, but he knows now that the perfect moment may never come.
He glances over his shoulder. Kellerman is staring out the window. Lincoln is dozing once more. Leaning forward, he touches Sara gently on the arm, letting his hand linger. “Sara?” She opens her eyes, but makes no move to unfold her arms, her defensive body language screamingly obvious. He glances around the carriage once more, then slides his hand along her arm until his fingers find the soft skin of her wrist.
She looks at him, saying nothing, but he sees the distance receding from her dark eyes, feel the skip of her pulse beneath his fingertips. He swallows hard, trying to remember the last time he’d said these particular words to anyone outside his family, trying to remember the last time he’d wanted to say them to anyone outside his family. Over his shoulder he hears Lincoln coughing, the sound of Kellerman getting to his feet and restlessly pacing the aisle, and he knows that their private moment is gone, snatched away like so many other moments between them.
“We’ll be making a stop in La Junta in about five minutes,” Kellerman announces from the other end of the carriage. “Could we assume our positions, do you think?”
Michael ignores him. “About before -” he says quietly, holding Sara’s gaze with his, not letting her look away. He slides his hand into hers, the soft skin of her palm warm against his fingertips. “Me too.”
It’s completely inadequate, but it’s the best he can do with two pairs of ears listening to them. Her mouth falls open, just a little, her eyelids fluttering as she blinks slowly once, then twice. He holds his breath, suddenly afraid he’d somehow misconstrued her words, then she gives him a smile as warm as the sun streaming through the window.
“Once again, how about it, kids?” Kellerman snaps, but the words barely out of his mouth before Lincoln is talking right over the top of him.
“How about shutting the fuck up, jackass?”
Michael looks at Sara, once again feeling the sudden and ridiculous urge to grin. She shakes her head, her mouth twitching with the hint of a smile, patting him on the knee as she gets to her feet and moves to sit towards the back of the carriage. Michael watches her as she walks away, unable to stop himself studying the gentle sway of her hips, then Kellerman’s jacket is unceremoniously flung into his face.
“Show time, Scofield.”
Michael looks up at Kellerman, once again counting down the hours until they can part company. “Sure thing,” he mutters, draping the jacket over his supposedly cuffed hands. “Boss,” he adds on a sudden perverse whim he doesn’t bother to resist.
Kellerman blinks, then drops into Sara’s vacated seat with a decided air of annoyance. “See this? This is why I prefer to work alone.”
“Really?” Michael studies the red marks on Kellerman’s throat, the streaks of blood on his shirt front, then gives the other man his most insincere smile, the smile he once kept exclusively for Brad Bellick. “I can’t imagine why.”
~*~
Only a few days ago, Michael had decided that driving for hours across the country was unbearably tedious. It takes just over twenty-four hours to travel from Albuquerque to Chicago by train, and he knows now that he will never complain about a long car journey ever again. In other circumstances, perhaps he may have even enjoyed such a leisurely train ride, appreciated the ever-changing scenery, the well-appointed dining car and that old-fashioned sense of adventure without having to leave his air-conditioned comfort. Maybe some day, Michael thinks darkly as he does his best to stretch the stiffness out of his back, but not today.
The train weaves its way through five different states, taking them from early morning through to evening, then through the long night. After a quick consensus that trips to the dining car would be too risky, Sara digs into Michael’s battered duffle bag every few hours. She doles out their rapidly dwindling stash of snack food - that first hotel room seems like a thousand years ago now - and once again Michael is astounded at her resilience as she tosses a packet of chips and a candy bar to her former kidnapper. Granted, from a certain angle it may have looked as though she was aiming for Kellerman’s head, but Michael decides to give her the benefit of the doubt. She’s still furious - he sees it in her eyes and the stiff lines of her posture - but it’s as though her outburst has helped her push it right down, help her bear to be in the same room without giving in to her anger.
The conductor knocks on the connecting door every few hours - causing a hasty reconfiguration of passenger positions each time - anxiously checking to see if Kellerman ‘needs anything’. After the third visit, Kellerman barely opens the door an inch. “Look, I appreciate your concern, but this isn’t going to work. I need to focus 110% on my prisoner, and I can’t do that when you keep coming in here distracting me.”
The other man apologises, his affronted gaze resting on Michael as though having a convicted felon on his respectable train is a personal insult. “I’m sorry, sir, I just wanted to make sure all was well.”
Kellerman smiles warmly. “It is. Once we’re in Chicago, we’ll be off your hands and you’ll have a good story to tell all your friends.”
“Of course.” The conductor all but tips his cap, and Michael feels the sudden urge to roll his eyes. It’s all too easy to see how Kellerman had charmed Sara, even if he had to resort to the cliché of new gay best friend to do it, and the thought of what might had happened if they hadn’t managed to pull her out of that Chicago alleyway still makes his stomach churn.
Sometime in the early afternoon, Kellerman produces a deck of cards, lobbing them to Lincoln without a word. The three of them - Kellerman makes no move to join them, a wise decision as far as Michael’s concerned - play hand after hand of desultory gin rummy. Michael catches his brother’s eye over the top of his dealt hand several times, and he knows he’s not the only one thinking of the last time they’d played cards. It’s hard to believe that only a few months have passed since he and Vee were sitting in the visitation room at Fox River, waiting for Lincoln to be taken away from them.
Even harder to make himself believe that Vee is gone.
Michael’s fingers tighten on the plastic coated playing cards in his grip as every memory he has of Veronica - the good, the bad and everything in between - is suddenly floods into his head, making his throat feel tight and hot, making him feel like he can’t breathe. Shit. He hasn’t let himself say her name, hasn’t pushed Lincoln to talk about her, and now he knows why, because just thinking about her makes him want to smash his fist through the nearest wall, and he can’t begin to fathom how Lincoln must feel.
As if his thoughts have kept pace with Michael’s, his brother slaps his cards down on the seat beside him and gets to his feet. “I’m out.” He walks quickly down the aisle towards the bathroom, his head bowed, his wide shoulders slumped, and Michael knows better than to go after him.
The numbers and painted faces on the cards in his hand begin to blur. He sucks in a sharp breath, blinking away the urge to let himself crumble. He feels the touch of Sara’s hand on his arm, the soft press of her knee against his. “This is never really going to be over, is it?”
Her voice is calm, but in her eyes he sees a reflection of his own grief, his own sorrow. He puts his hand over hers - the antique silver ring on her finger presses into his palm, a foreign yet familiar touch - and reminds himself of his vow to always tell her the truth. “I don’t know.”
~*~
Some time after midnight, Sara is asleep in the seat beside him, one long leg curled up underneath her, her head lolling on his shoulder. He cannot resist the impulse to turn his head, letting his lips brush her forehead. The lingering scent of lemon soap on her skin, instantly takes him back to the bathroom downstairs, to the feel of her, the taste of her, the sound of her breathing his name as her control shattered into pieces. His whole body tightens, and it’s all he can do not to slide his arm around her shoulders, thread his hands through the soft cloud of auburn hair -
Damn it. He closes his eyes, telling himself that this is not helping, that he needs to stay focused and he can’t do that if he’s thinking with anything other than his head. Gently easing himself away from her, he makes sure that her head is now pillowed on the head rest, then gets to his feet, making his way down the aisle towards his brother.
“You okay?”
Lincoln is staring out the window at the darkness. He hasn’t spoken more than half a dozen words since he’d walked away from their card game, and just looking at him makes Michael’s heart ache. They both have to keep moving forward, not let themselves get themselves get trapped in the mire of their mistakes, but that’s easier said than done.
Lincoln doesn’t look at him as he speaks. “What if this is nothing more than wild goose chase? What if all we find is packet of imported tea leaves?”
Michael slides into the seat across the aisle. “Then we’ll think of something else.”
Lincoln turns his head, his expression one Michael remembers all too well from their childhood, an ‘are you for real?’ look that manages to be affectionate and pissed off at the same time. “You never give up, do you?”
Feeling strangely embarrassed, Michael shrugs. “I like to finish what I start.”
Lincoln glances towards the other end of the carriage, towards Sara. “So I’ve noticed.” There’s the faintest hint of resentment in his voice, and Michael feels himself flush.
“I’m sorry.”
His brother frowns. “Why?”
“That Sara is here and Veronica isn’t.” The words - the ones that normally stay safely in his head - come out of his mouth in a thoughtless rush before he can stop them. He wants to bite his tongue but it’s too late, the words are out there now and Lincoln’s face is carved from stone, his eyes dark with grief.
“Not your fault.”
Michael sucks in a deep breath, once again feeling that same painful pressure across his chest. “Isn’t it?”
“Don’t do this, Michael.” Lincoln shakes his head, his words rough and sharp. “What’s done is done and there’s not a fucking thing we can do to change any of it.” There’s a finality in his tone that tells Michael that the discussion is over, and Michael can’t help but feel relieved. “Look, if this doesn’t work out -” Lincoln begins hesitantly, glancing again towards the front of the carriage.
“It will.”
“In case it doesn’t,” his brother insists, staring at him as though he might disappear at any second. “Thank you.”
There’s a lump in Michael’s throat the size of a fist. He remembers their desperate flight through the woods surrounding Fox River, the dogs at their heels, adrenalin pumping through his blood like a drug. He remembers Lincoln grabbing his arm, wasting time they didn’t have to spare, gasping out almost the same exact words.
Back then, Michael had cut him off, telling him it was okay, and then they were running again, fear clawing at their backs. It feels good to actually hear the words, much better than he thought it would. Despite the darkness of his thoughts, he smiles, suddenly feeling as though anything might be possible. “Any time.”
~*~