Let Me Be the One (You Need)
Title: Let Me Be the One (You Need)
Author: linzi20
Pairing: Michael Scofield/Sara Tancredi
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 950
Spoilers: Post episode fic (4.13 Deal or No Deal)
A/N: This is a continuation of rosie_spleen’s Ain't No Sunshine
and wrldpossibility’s If She's Gone to Stay
Like the pervious stories, the title for this fic is also taken from a Bill Wither’s song of the same name. Much love to you ladies for allowing me to continue what you so beautifully started. Thanks also to msgenevieve for the read-through.
It’s dark when he enters the boat; the lingering smell of her in the air, her scent immediately soothing and softening the torturous ache of his head. She’d excused herself hours ago, exhausted he’d presumed from the events of the day-from their conversation on the pier-and he’d let her leave, again, with a quick ‘goodnight’. He had seen the look of disappointment in her eyes, the look he’s becoming quickly familiar with; the look that seems to end most of their moments together, intimate or not. He knows he’s hurting her, and yet he can’t stop. He’s an addict, consumed by the chase; the goal in sight as satiable to him in the distance as if it were perched on the tip of his tongue, and she’s his collateral damage.
He watches her sleep, an act that has become as much of an addiction as their mission itself. When she’s sleeping he can’t hurt her; his words can’t sting and her face is absent of the anger and frustration he knows she feels. He wants to touch her, he wants to hear the hitch of her breath as he strokes her skin, and yet he’s afraid that if he does, if he allows himself that much, the fight that keeps him moving-that keeps him alive-will dwindle in the softness of her flesh; drown in the wetness of the tears he knows harbour too near the surface.
Her breath moves in and out slowly; her expression peaceful at last and it occurs to him-not for the first time-that she would be fine without him. That she’d survive without him. Perhaps she’d even be better off without him.
He’s broken, of this much he’s sure. A broken man with a broken purpose, whose life is expendable to many; a man who’s taken too many chances and who’s had too many lives. A man who only causes her pain.
And yet she stays.
He’s never loved another woman. Whether that’s because of circumstance or fear he’s not sure. He knows though, that no other woman would fight for him the way she has; no other woman would kill for him the way she has. And no other woman would stay the way she has. He owes her more than this, and each time he backs away from her, each time the wall between them becomes thicker and angrier he hates himself for not giving her what she deserves.
His head hurts; his body aches to the core, and the only thing he wants is to feel her touch on his skin. It’s as though she’s his remedy; the antidote killing the poison inside him and he wants her with a hunger so insatiable it scares him.
It’s not about the sex; it’s not the act itself but of the need and the willingness to be consumed by something-someone-other than pain and doubt and regret. In their moments of passion he feels whole. The pieces of him-long since discarded by memory and betrayal-somehow find each other again, their edges softer, dulled by time and love and desire.
He sits on the bunk beside her, and softly pulls back the hair that has fallen over her face. Her cheeks are warm; he can feel the blush of sleep on his fingertips and he wants to weep for all the things he should have said but hasn’t.
I love you. I’m not leaving you. I will not die.
She stirs at his touch and turns to him, gripping his hand in hers. Relief washes across her face as though she’d been afraid he would not come. It’s a fear he knows she lives and breathes each day; the fear that there will come a time when she’ll look behind her and he won’t be there-that she won’t find him-that he couldn’t be saved. It’s a look he knows all too well, because he’s seen it in the mirror a hundred times. He’s lived the horror of not having her; of thinking her gone, and sometimes-because he is still terrified-it’s what haunts him when he looks her in the eye.
Without a word she shifts backwards towards the wall allowing him room. He undresses cautiously in the dark, aware once more of the relentless pounding of his head, and slips in silently beside her. He faces her, running his fingertips across her lips, his breath and body shaking simultaneously.
“I’m sorry, Sara.”
“Don’t be.”
There is no edge to her voice; no question, no implication. She massages the base of his skull with her fingers, and with each press of pleasant pain he finds himself finally able to relax into her, his head resting on the bareness of her breasts and his arms wrapping around the softness of her body holding her to him.
Her hands trail up and down his back; her fingernails running in slow circles across his strained muscles. She heals him-now, and like always-with her touch, with an uncompromising passion, and with a love he will always feel so unworthy of.
She is what saves him, over and over and over again.
When she shifts closer to him and lifts his hand to the rise of her breast, he feels the air escape from his lungs. When she kisses him softly with a determination he knows all too well, he opens his mouth to hers without hesitation. And when she whispers I love you as he enters her and he feels her heart beating in her chest next to his, he knows he’s forgiven.
I love you. I’m not leaving you. I will not die.
Author: linzi20
Pairing: Michael Scofield/Sara Tancredi
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 950
Spoilers: Post episode fic (4.13 Deal or No Deal)
A/N: This is a continuation of rosie_spleen’s Ain't No Sunshine
and wrldpossibility’s If She's Gone to Stay
Like the pervious stories, the title for this fic is also taken from a Bill Wither’s song of the same name. Much love to you ladies for allowing me to continue what you so beautifully started. Thanks also to msgenevieve for the read-through.
It’s dark when he enters the boat; the lingering smell of her in the air, her scent immediately soothing and softening the torturous ache of his head. She’d excused herself hours ago, exhausted he’d presumed from the events of the day-from their conversation on the pier-and he’d let her leave, again, with a quick ‘goodnight’. He had seen the look of disappointment in her eyes, the look he’s becoming quickly familiar with; the look that seems to end most of their moments together, intimate or not. He knows he’s hurting her, and yet he can’t stop. He’s an addict, consumed by the chase; the goal in sight as satiable to him in the distance as if it were perched on the tip of his tongue, and she’s his collateral damage.
He watches her sleep, an act that has become as much of an addiction as their mission itself. When she’s sleeping he can’t hurt her; his words can’t sting and her face is absent of the anger and frustration he knows she feels. He wants to touch her, he wants to hear the hitch of her breath as he strokes her skin, and yet he’s afraid that if he does, if he allows himself that much, the fight that keeps him moving-that keeps him alive-will dwindle in the softness of her flesh; drown in the wetness of the tears he knows harbour too near the surface.
Her breath moves in and out slowly; her expression peaceful at last and it occurs to him-not for the first time-that she would be fine without him. That she’d survive without him. Perhaps she’d even be better off without him.
He’s broken, of this much he’s sure. A broken man with a broken purpose, whose life is expendable to many; a man who’s taken too many chances and who’s had too many lives. A man who only causes her pain.
And yet she stays.
He’s never loved another woman. Whether that’s because of circumstance or fear he’s not sure. He knows though, that no other woman would fight for him the way she has; no other woman would kill for him the way she has. And no other woman would stay the way she has. He owes her more than this, and each time he backs away from her, each time the wall between them becomes thicker and angrier he hates himself for not giving her what she deserves.
His head hurts; his body aches to the core, and the only thing he wants is to feel her touch on his skin. It’s as though she’s his remedy; the antidote killing the poison inside him and he wants her with a hunger so insatiable it scares him.
It’s not about the sex; it’s not the act itself but of the need and the willingness to be consumed by something-someone-other than pain and doubt and regret. In their moments of passion he feels whole. The pieces of him-long since discarded by memory and betrayal-somehow find each other again, their edges softer, dulled by time and love and desire.
He sits on the bunk beside her, and softly pulls back the hair that has fallen over her face. Her cheeks are warm; he can feel the blush of sleep on his fingertips and he wants to weep for all the things he should have said but hasn’t.
I love you. I’m not leaving you. I will not die.
She stirs at his touch and turns to him, gripping his hand in hers. Relief washes across her face as though she’d been afraid he would not come. It’s a fear he knows she lives and breathes each day; the fear that there will come a time when she’ll look behind her and he won’t be there-that she won’t find him-that he couldn’t be saved. It’s a look he knows all too well, because he’s seen it in the mirror a hundred times. He’s lived the horror of not having her; of thinking her gone, and sometimes-because he is still terrified-it’s what haunts him when he looks her in the eye.
Without a word she shifts backwards towards the wall allowing him room. He undresses cautiously in the dark, aware once more of the relentless pounding of his head, and slips in silently beside her. He faces her, running his fingertips across her lips, his breath and body shaking simultaneously.
“I’m sorry, Sara.”
“Don’t be.”
There is no edge to her voice; no question, no implication. She massages the base of his skull with her fingers, and with each press of pleasant pain he finds himself finally able to relax into her, his head resting on the bareness of her breasts and his arms wrapping around the softness of her body holding her to him.
Her hands trail up and down his back; her fingernails running in slow circles across his strained muscles. She heals him-now, and like always-with her touch, with an uncompromising passion, and with a love he will always feel so unworthy of.
She is what saves him, over and over and over again.
When she shifts closer to him and lifts his hand to the rise of her breast, he feels the air escape from his lungs. When she kisses him softly with a determination he knows all too well, he opens his mouth to hers without hesitation. And when she whispers I love you as he enters her and he feels her heart beating in her chest next to his, he knows he’s forgiven.
I love you. I’m not leaving you. I will not die.