If She's Gone to Stay
Title: If She’s Gone to Stay
Author: wrldpossibility
Characters: Sara Tancredi, Michael Scofield
Word Count: 1375
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: post-ep fic to 4.13
Summary: She‘s angry with the world. She figures she has every right to be.
Author's Note:This fic is post-ep, and a continuation of rosie_spleen‘s Ain’t No Sunshine, found here. The title to this fic also comes from Bill Withers’ song by the same title. Thank you, Rosie, for generously allowing me to explore the concepts you set in motion with Michael’s POV. This one follows Sara’s. One line is taken from 4.13, and is not my own.
The sun is hurting her eyes. She’s left her sunglasses in her bag inside, but she doesn’t move to retrieve them. She just sits, settled into her usual place along the pier, back to the warehouse, eyes on the water. She stares until a dull headache slowly spreads from her temples inward, and then she thinks of Michael, and she swallows. She thinks instead of the boat, sitting just yards behind her, immobile, and tries not to imagine how close they are to simply shoving off and drifting away. South maybe. The wind at their backs.
She blinks. Then once more. She’s determined not to cry.
She’s angry with the world.
She figures she has every right to be.
She hears him coming, but doesn’t turn. Instead, when she feels his hand, feather-light, on the small of her back, she half-tilts her head toward him. His presence casts a shadow in which her retinas find relief, and she attempts a smile. “I’m sorry I threatened to kill you,” she says.
He remains standing directly behind her, but his hand rises to her shoulder. He lets it rest there, his thumb grazing her collarbone, and when he speaks, she can hear the answering smile in his voice, just as tenuous as her own. It‘s as though he’s trying each word on for size or durability. Holding it up for her approval. “Actually, I came out here to apologize to you.”
She waits.
“I’m sorry for what I said, in the hotel. For using your words against you.”
She nods in silent acknowledgement. She recalls the slap of the playing cards against her fingers, the swift shuffle of her thoughts fanning against the grain of his sarcasm. His dismissal. It hurts all over again, thinking of it.
All the same: "I shouldn’t have compared you to my father.”
She feels his hand stiffen momentarily on her shoulder, and she tilts her head up, squinting, to catch his eye. There’s a spark in them she can’t quite identify; maybe resentment? Fear?
“I won’t be like your father,” he whispers.
She swallows. Nods again. Looks back out toward the water. But you already are, she wants to tell him. Because Michael‘s just as stubborn, just as inclined to think he’s always so goddamned right. “I’ve decided. It’s what I think we should do…” He’s just as certain that the greater good surpasses all else--all others--as her father once was, and she’ll be loyal, but she won’t be blindly obedient. She’s not one of her dad’s ‘yes’ men. She’s also not Fernando. She has needs, but she won’t ply Michael with a steady appeal for answers. She’s not Lincoln.
She’s not sure who she is. She’s not sure what cards she brings to the table as Michael’s personal liability, unless it’s her sheer terror and her list of neurosurgeons on speed dial.
She simply continues to face forward, toward the water; she doesn’t need to see him to know her silence has spoken volumes on her behalf. That his mouth has closed in a tight line, his eyes darkening in an attempt at stoicism. She doesn’t need to see him to know he’s flinched, her non-committal response embedding itself with all the others under his skin.
A part of her longs to turn, take his hand, tug him down to her level, but she can’t quite bring herself to do it. They’re both navigating a thin line, balancing upon some high wire of civility, survival, and concern, afraid to misstep. Afraid to look down. Beneath their careful consideration, their feeble compromise, their unwillingness to unsettle the other, her agenda steadily clashes against his, and even though she had meant what she said, that he doesn’t need to worry about her and him, no matter the outcome of the hour, she’s not entirely sure she doesn’t need to worry. Because apparently she’s expellable, if not expendable.
“I thought you were going to apologize for attempting to ship me away on a Greyhound.”
He shifts seamlessly into a distinctly unremorseful tone. “No,” he says decisively. She sees the shake of his head in the quick flash of his shadow on the planks of the pier. “Not for that. I want you safe.”
She straightens. “I want you safe.”
She hears him breathe swiftly through his nose. His hand stills, and then he pulls away. “Not this same tired debate, Sara.”
She shouldn’t be surprised. She knows how badly conflict spooks him. She’s become used to weighing her words, speaking with upmost care, as though it’s his feelings that are fragile, not his frontal lobe. Perhaps it’s both. Perhaps it’s the same thing.
She bites her tongue for the millionth time since she’s met him. She tries to keep the bitterness out of her tone, she really does, but she hears it anyway. Her laugh is brittle. “What debate?”
He hears it too, of course. He speaks slowly. Evidently, he‘s chosen condescension to counter her sarcasm. “You know how I feel: surgery or no surgery, I’m never going to be able to live with myself if I don’t take these people down.”
Now she does face him, rising to stand. She’s heard this particular plan for martyrdom one too many times. “Then why can’t you understand that whether we take these people down or not, I’ll never be able to live with myself if you don’t have surgery?”
He takes a step back. “You’re afraid. I understand--”
“You don’t understand! Every day, we wake up, and we roll the dice again. And eventually, if we keep gambling like this, one of us is going to die. You know that. I know that. And it’s probably going to be you." She pauses, hoping to see these words sink in. Instead, he stares at her with the fatalistic indifference that's becoming all too customary, and suddenly, she's seething. She has a temper, after all, and more and more often these days, she yearns to use it.
She speaks again before thinking. "Try imagining for even one minute how it would feel for me to hear the words that you’re…”
She halts abruptly, trailing off as her hand rises of its own accord to her mouth. He’s looking at her as though he can’t draw air.
“I don’t have to imagine, do I?”
I’m sorry. I’m sorry. She’s so sorry she feels a sensation akin to sinking. She's submerged in self-loathing, and instinctively hugs herself, arms folded across her chest, aching. She can‘t manage more than a whisper. “Then you know.”
He looks so wan, she sincerely hopes it’s just the sun beating down that’s bleaching the color from his cheeks. “I don’t…” He appears at a loss. “Yes, I know.”
He looks alarmingly sick now. She wants to stop, but can’t. Nothing‘s taboo now--all the cards are on the table--and he hasn‘t turned tail. She’d underestimated him. She refuses to look away, arms still tightly folded. “Then how can you do this?" she demands. Her voice breaks. "You’re getting sicker. You’re making me watch.”
He shakes his head. “You could have been gone by now…safe…with Sucre.” He grimaces. One hand rises to his temple, just to abruptly lower, as though he’s thought better of it mid-reach. As though he’s decided now is not the moment to highlight the firing of pain within his skull.
It undoes her.
Her clasp of her midsection collapses, and she steps toward him, her hands cupping the nape of his neck to draw him into her. He stumbles, arms encircling her…clinging…and she cradles him, guiding the dull weight of his forehead to rest on her chest. She feels him exhale…hard. He’s shaking. “I can’t go without you,” she breathes into his ear, “and I can’t watch you die here.”
She cannot go. She cannot stay.
He says nothing, but after a moment, she feels the palm of his hand raise to curl around her neck, much as she had done minutes before, drawing her face down into the curve of his shoulder. She squeezes her eyes tightly shut against the cotton of his shirt, the heat of his skin, and the sob in her throat. When she breathes, when he breathes, it’s to the soft cadence of water lapping the pillar beneath them. He’s still holding her tight, one hand fisted in the back of her shirt.
She’s left with the only choice that has ever remained to her, when it comes to Michael, which is no choice at all.
Author: wrldpossibility
Characters: Sara Tancredi, Michael Scofield
Word Count: 1375
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: post-ep fic to 4.13
Summary: She‘s angry with the world. She figures she has every right to be.
Author's Note:This fic is post-ep, and a continuation of rosie_spleen‘s Ain’t No Sunshine, found here. The title to this fic also comes from Bill Withers’ song by the same title. Thank you, Rosie, for generously allowing me to explore the concepts you set in motion with Michael’s POV. This one follows Sara’s. One line is taken from 4.13, and is not my own.
The sun is hurting her eyes. She’s left her sunglasses in her bag inside, but she doesn’t move to retrieve them. She just sits, settled into her usual place along the pier, back to the warehouse, eyes on the water. She stares until a dull headache slowly spreads from her temples inward, and then she thinks of Michael, and she swallows. She thinks instead of the boat, sitting just yards behind her, immobile, and tries not to imagine how close they are to simply shoving off and drifting away. South maybe. The wind at their backs.
She blinks. Then once more. She’s determined not to cry.
She’s angry with the world.
She figures she has every right to be.
She hears him coming, but doesn’t turn. Instead, when she feels his hand, feather-light, on the small of her back, she half-tilts her head toward him. His presence casts a shadow in which her retinas find relief, and she attempts a smile. “I’m sorry I threatened to kill you,” she says.
He remains standing directly behind her, but his hand rises to her shoulder. He lets it rest there, his thumb grazing her collarbone, and when he speaks, she can hear the answering smile in his voice, just as tenuous as her own. It‘s as though he’s trying each word on for size or durability. Holding it up for her approval. “Actually, I came out here to apologize to you.”
She waits.
“I’m sorry for what I said, in the hotel. For using your words against you.”
She nods in silent acknowledgement. She recalls the slap of the playing cards against her fingers, the swift shuffle of her thoughts fanning against the grain of his sarcasm. His dismissal. It hurts all over again, thinking of it.
All the same: "I shouldn’t have compared you to my father.”
She feels his hand stiffen momentarily on her shoulder, and she tilts her head up, squinting, to catch his eye. There’s a spark in them she can’t quite identify; maybe resentment? Fear?
“I won’t be like your father,” he whispers.
She swallows. Nods again. Looks back out toward the water. But you already are, she wants to tell him. Because Michael‘s just as stubborn, just as inclined to think he’s always so goddamned right. “I’ve decided. It’s what I think we should do…” He’s just as certain that the greater good surpasses all else--all others--as her father once was, and she’ll be loyal, but she won’t be blindly obedient. She’s not one of her dad’s ‘yes’ men. She’s also not Fernando. She has needs, but she won’t ply Michael with a steady appeal for answers. She’s not Lincoln.
She’s not sure who she is. She’s not sure what cards she brings to the table as Michael’s personal liability, unless it’s her sheer terror and her list of neurosurgeons on speed dial.
She simply continues to face forward, toward the water; she doesn’t need to see him to know her silence has spoken volumes on her behalf. That his mouth has closed in a tight line, his eyes darkening in an attempt at stoicism. She doesn’t need to see him to know he’s flinched, her non-committal response embedding itself with all the others under his skin.
A part of her longs to turn, take his hand, tug him down to her level, but she can’t quite bring herself to do it. They’re both navigating a thin line, balancing upon some high wire of civility, survival, and concern, afraid to misstep. Afraid to look down. Beneath their careful consideration, their feeble compromise, their unwillingness to unsettle the other, her agenda steadily clashes against his, and even though she had meant what she said, that he doesn’t need to worry about her and him, no matter the outcome of the hour, she’s not entirely sure she doesn’t need to worry. Because apparently she’s expellable, if not expendable.
“I thought you were going to apologize for attempting to ship me away on a Greyhound.”
He shifts seamlessly into a distinctly unremorseful tone. “No,” he says decisively. She sees the shake of his head in the quick flash of his shadow on the planks of the pier. “Not for that. I want you safe.”
She straightens. “I want you safe.”
She hears him breathe swiftly through his nose. His hand stills, and then he pulls away. “Not this same tired debate, Sara.”
She shouldn’t be surprised. She knows how badly conflict spooks him. She’s become used to weighing her words, speaking with upmost care, as though it’s his feelings that are fragile, not his frontal lobe. Perhaps it’s both. Perhaps it’s the same thing.
She bites her tongue for the millionth time since she’s met him. She tries to keep the bitterness out of her tone, she really does, but she hears it anyway. Her laugh is brittle. “What debate?”
He hears it too, of course. He speaks slowly. Evidently, he‘s chosen condescension to counter her sarcasm. “You know how I feel: surgery or no surgery, I’m never going to be able to live with myself if I don’t take these people down.”
Now she does face him, rising to stand. She’s heard this particular plan for martyrdom one too many times. “Then why can’t you understand that whether we take these people down or not, I’ll never be able to live with myself if you don’t have surgery?”
He takes a step back. “You’re afraid. I understand--”
“You don’t understand! Every day, we wake up, and we roll the dice again. And eventually, if we keep gambling like this, one of us is going to die. You know that. I know that. And it’s probably going to be you." She pauses, hoping to see these words sink in. Instead, he stares at her with the fatalistic indifference that's becoming all too customary, and suddenly, she's seething. She has a temper, after all, and more and more often these days, she yearns to use it.
She speaks again before thinking. "Try imagining for even one minute how it would feel for me to hear the words that you’re…”
She halts abruptly, trailing off as her hand rises of its own accord to her mouth. He’s looking at her as though he can’t draw air.
“I don’t have to imagine, do I?”
I’m sorry. I’m sorry. She’s so sorry she feels a sensation akin to sinking. She's submerged in self-loathing, and instinctively hugs herself, arms folded across her chest, aching. She can‘t manage more than a whisper. “Then you know.”
He looks so wan, she sincerely hopes it’s just the sun beating down that’s bleaching the color from his cheeks. “I don’t…” He appears at a loss. “Yes, I know.”
He looks alarmingly sick now. She wants to stop, but can’t. Nothing‘s taboo now--all the cards are on the table--and he hasn‘t turned tail. She’d underestimated him. She refuses to look away, arms still tightly folded. “Then how can you do this?" she demands. Her voice breaks. "You’re getting sicker. You’re making me watch.”
He shakes his head. “You could have been gone by now…safe…with Sucre.” He grimaces. One hand rises to his temple, just to abruptly lower, as though he’s thought better of it mid-reach. As though he’s decided now is not the moment to highlight the firing of pain within his skull.
It undoes her.
Her clasp of her midsection collapses, and she steps toward him, her hands cupping the nape of his neck to draw him into her. He stumbles, arms encircling her…clinging…and she cradles him, guiding the dull weight of his forehead to rest on her chest. She feels him exhale…hard. He’s shaking. “I can’t go without you,” she breathes into his ear, “and I can’t watch you die here.”
She cannot go. She cannot stay.
He says nothing, but after a moment, she feels the palm of his hand raise to curl around her neck, much as she had done minutes before, drawing her face down into the curve of his shoulder. She squeezes her eyes tightly shut against the cotton of his shirt, the heat of his skin, and the sob in her throat. When she breathes, when he breathes, it’s to the soft cadence of water lapping the pillar beneath them. He’s still holding her tight, one hand fisted in the back of her shirt.
She’s left with the only choice that has ever remained to her, when it comes to Michael, which is no choice at all.