New Rules
Author: chinesebakery
Pairing: Michael/Sara
Genre: Light angst
Rating: G
Summary: It’s funny how the one appointment she was looking forward to a few days before has now become a daily chore.
Spoilers: 1x11, “And Then There Were 7”
Disclaimer: Nothing’s mine, not even the idea for this fic.
A/N: Thanks to be_cool_bec for the beta.
Written on karine_itml’s prompt: Michael/Sara, the infirmary, "Would you stop doing that? Please."
It’s funny how the one appointment she was looking forward to a few days before has now become a daily chore. Every visit revives her humiliation and it’s all she can do to keep her professional facade.
He never fails to call her by her title, never invades her personal space, and doesn’t ask any personal question. Actually, he barely speaks if she hasn’t asked him a question. He’s obeying the new rules perfectly.
But his eyes don’t. His eyes never let her forget what a fool she’s been. She feels him staring at the back of her neck as she prepares the injection, senses the weight of his gaze on her hand every time she seizes his elbow. She knows he’s studying her face as she slowly pushes the plunger, for her cheeks suddenly feel too warm.
"Would you stop doing that? Please," she mutters, unsure if she’s addressing him or herself.
There’s a moment of silence, a deliberate pause, before he replies quietly, “Doing what?”
Sara tenses instantly. His voice is unreadable, there’s no humor, no teasing in his words. For a moment, she debates clarifying her question, but every sentence she words in her mind sounds ridiculous and slightly inappropriate.
She’s not a budding teenager, for Christ’s sake, she’s a prison doctor. And the one thing she knows about him for certain is that he’s a lying, deceitful convict, one of many.
“Nevermind,” she sighs, taking a step back. As she gestures to the guard to walk him back to his cell, she knows - she feels - that he’s trying to catch her gaze once more. Not that she’ll let him.
As he’s escorted out of the infirmary, she turns to her desk to escape his pained stare. In the first drawer, crumpled and flattened under a folder, is a tiny rose, red paper and green.
She can make him call her by her last time, keep him out of her space, never meet his eyes.
If only she could stop him from affecting her.
Pairing: Michael/Sara
Genre: Light angst
Rating: G
Summary: It’s funny how the one appointment she was looking forward to a few days before has now become a daily chore.
Spoilers: 1x11, “And Then There Were 7”
Disclaimer: Nothing’s mine, not even the idea for this fic.
A/N: Thanks to be_cool_bec for the beta.
Written on karine_itml’s prompt: Michael/Sara, the infirmary, "Would you stop doing that? Please."
It’s funny how the one appointment she was looking forward to a few days before has now become a daily chore. Every visit revives her humiliation and it’s all she can do to keep her professional facade.
He never fails to call her by her title, never invades her personal space, and doesn’t ask any personal question. Actually, he barely speaks if she hasn’t asked him a question. He’s obeying the new rules perfectly.
But his eyes don’t. His eyes never let her forget what a fool she’s been. She feels him staring at the back of her neck as she prepares the injection, senses the weight of his gaze on her hand every time she seizes his elbow. She knows he’s studying her face as she slowly pushes the plunger, for her cheeks suddenly feel too warm.
"Would you stop doing that? Please," she mutters, unsure if she’s addressing him or herself.
There’s a moment of silence, a deliberate pause, before he replies quietly, “Doing what?”
Sara tenses instantly. His voice is unreadable, there’s no humor, no teasing in his words. For a moment, she debates clarifying her question, but every sentence she words in her mind sounds ridiculous and slightly inappropriate.
She’s not a budding teenager, for Christ’s sake, she’s a prison doctor. And the one thing she knows about him for certain is that he’s a lying, deceitful convict, one of many.
“Nevermind,” she sighs, taking a step back. As she gestures to the guard to walk him back to his cell, she knows - she feels - that he’s trying to catch her gaze once more. Not that she’ll let him.
As he’s escorted out of the infirmary, she turns to her desk to escape his pained stare. In the first drawer, crumpled and flattened under a folder, is a tiny rose, red paper and green.
She can make him call her by her last time, keep him out of her space, never meet his eyes.
If only she could stop him from affecting her.