Perfect Timing - Michael/Sara (1/1)
Title: Perfect Timing (1/1)
Fandom: Prison Break
Characters: Michael Scofield, Sara Tancredi, special guest appearance by a special guest
Pairing: Michael/Sara
Length: 2,210 words
Rating: PG-13
Summary: You can't look to the future while you're still running from your past. This story is Non-Epilogue-Compliant and does not follow Season Three or Season Four in any way, shape or form.
Author's Note:This story is part of the Full Circle series. It takes place between the 'end' and the 'epilogue' of both Safe House and India, and will no doubt make more sense if you're familiar with this wacky alternate universe of mine. The plotbunny belongs to scribblecat, as usual. I wrote this tonight for myself, for my friends, and for a couple of girls who are probably too sad to read this right now, but I want them to know that we're all in this together and I am not going anywhere and that I am going to do whatever I can to make it better. *hugs you*
~*~
He places a tick next to Katie’s cell phone number, the scratch of the pen against paper almost loud in the silent hospital room. It’s just after nine o’clock, the maternity ward has settled into a temporary hush he knows will no doubt be broken within minutes. He’d left a halting message on Katie’s voicemail, belatedly realizing she could be working late at Fox River. Maybe he should have waited until morning, but Sara had sleepily rattled off her former colleague’s number as she’d drifted off into a well-deserved nap, and who was he to deny the wishes of a woman who’d just spent five hours in labor?
He smiles, gently rubbing the heel of his right hand against the tender knuckles of his left. The last few hours have been both a blur and a crystal clear memory etched into his brain, but at least he’d remembered to keep his writing hand from being squeezed to death.
His daughter - the most beautiful creature he’s ever seen aside from her mother - is also sleeping peacefully, albeit down the corridor in the nursery. He’d tried to convince the nurse to leave the cot in Sara’s room, but she’d simply given him a knowing smile. “I know it doesn’t feel like it now, but pretty soon you’ll be praying for a few hours peace. Let mom sleep while she can, okay?” The nurse eyed him wryly. “You look as though you could use a nap yourself.”
He’d grinned at her. “Later.”
Now, he leans back in the visitor’s chair beside Sara’s bed, his still-tender left hand entwined with hers, tapping the tip of his pen against the names on his regrettably short list. Lincoln and LJ and Jane, well, they’ve already been and gone, leaving behind a veritable forest of hothouse flowers that must have cost a fortune. He scans the rest of the names, smiling as he thinks of the different reactions. Sucre had literally burst into song at the news, before plunging the conversation into a feast of joyous Spanish, leaving Michael frantically trying to catch more than every third word. Bruce Bennett had been as reserved as always but obviously pleased, promising to call the next day so he could speak to the new mother. And with that message for Katie, that’s all his calls made.
He frowns at the list in his hand. There should be more, he thinks. She deserves more. A name flashes into his head, a face they’d both known so well, and his heart sinks. He doubts his call would be welcomed, but perhaps once he explained why he was calling -
Lifting his head, he gazes at the sleeping woman beside him, his throat tightening with a tender longing that almost shocks him in its intensity. Her hair has come loose from the ponytail she’d calmly fashioned as she’d announced she was in labor and it was time to go to the hospital. She’s wearing no makeup, not even her beloved lip balm, but that does nothing to detract from the pale glow of her skin, the flush of colour high on her cheeks. Her lips are curved as if in a smile, and he can’t resist the invitation. She stirs gently as he kisses her, her lips parting softly beneath his, but she doesn’t wake. “I love you,” he whispers into her ear, grinning as she smiles in her sleep. “So much.”
The hallway is brightly lit, a comforting familiarity that makes him feel as though he could be in any hospital anywhere in the world. Two of the nurses working the night shift give him indulgent smiles as he approaches their workstation, and he suddenly imagines he has, “I’m a new father!” tattooed across his forehead instead of redundant directions to freedom hidden beneath his long-sleeved t-shirt. “Ah, excuse me?”
The older of the two women looks at him. “Yes?”
“I need to make a call but I don’t want to wake my wife -” Even now, saying that last word makes him feel as though he should pinch himself.
“Sure, sure.” She points down the hallway, away from the nursery. “There’s a waiting room along that way. You can grab some coffee if you want.”
A few minutes later, he’s pacing the small waiting room, like any nervous father-to-be. Of course, his child has already been born safe and sound, and his wife is sleeping peacefully. His stomach is curling into nervous threads for a very different reason, and he knows he has to make this call while he still thinks there’s the slightest chance it might be a good idea.
The time is nine-fifteen now, which means it’s nine-fifteen in Chicago, which means he really has no excuse not to call. He drops into a chair and dials the number for information before he can talk himself out of it, his heels drumming nervously on the hard floor as he waits for his call to be answered. It only takes a few minutes to obtain the number he needs, and he can’t help wondering why things work out smoothly only when you really don’t want them to.
He dials the number quickly, again before he can think better of it, and it’s picked up on the second ring. At the sound of the gruff, familiar voice, his stomach lurches, and he’s suddenly back in Fox River, begging to be understood. “Henry.”
There’s a silence, thick and wary, then a sound that might be a greeting if it didn’t sound so much like a growl. “I have nothing to say to you, Scofield,” Henry Pope tells him in a voice brittle with anger.
“Please don’t hang up, Henry. Please.” He’s on his feet now, as though that might make a difference. “I’m calling about Sara.” There’s another silence, as thick as the first, and Michael closes his eyes, pressing the phone harder against his ear. “I’ll only take a minute of your time, I promise.”
“You have sixty seconds.”
“She’s had a baby. I mean, we’ve had a baby. This afternoon. A girl. Her name is India.” The words trip over his tongue and into the phone, a rush of entreaty, making him breathless. “I know you have no time for me and I understand, I do, but I know Sara would want you to know, and I’m sorry to call so late, but I just-”
“Michael.” He breaks off at the sound of his name, swallowing hard against the rush of words, sinking back into his chair as the other man clears his throat. “Take a breath, son.” There’s another pause, but this time it doesn’t make Michael feel like squirming. “A girl, you say?”
“Yes.” His eyes have blurred, whether with tears of joy at the thought of his daughter or relief that this man has yet to hang up on him, he doesn’t know. “Seven pounds, two ounces.”
“Congratulations,” Henry says, and he sounds as though he means it. “Going to make an honest woman out of her mother?”
Michael grins into the phone. “I already have. Two months ago.”
“Cutting it a little fine, don’t you think?”
Michael’s grin widens at the memory of his wedding day, the way Sara’s flowing gown had both concealed and enhanced the voluptuous swell of her belly. “My timing’s always been a little off, Henry.” He hesitates, then decides he needs to exorcise this demon straight up. “You should know that.”
“I do.” Yet another pause, then Henry clears his throat again. When he speaks again, his voice is tinged with a warmth Michael never thought he’d hear again. “Sara’s well, I take it?”
“She’s fine,” he answers, unable to keep the smile from his face at the thought of the woman sleeping down the hallway. “Tired, but absolutely fine.”
“Where are you now?”
Michael blinks. “Uh, Panama City.”
Henry Pope chuckles, another sound Michael thought he’d never hear again. “No, son, which hospital?”
Feeling faintly sheepish, Michael rattles off the name of the hospital, then takes a deep breath. “Thank you, Henry.”
“For what?”
Michael flicks his thumb against the split plastic casing of the arm of his uncomfortable chair. “For not hanging up on me.”
“My retirement gave me a lot more time to follow the news, Michael,” Henry says dryly. “Let’s just say that the story behind President Reynolds’ resignation didn’t escape my attention.”
The deep breath he’d just taken seems to rush from his lungs. “I wish-” He hesitates, not wanting to end this conversation on a raw note but knowing he has to get these words out before they fester and sour inside him. “I wish we’d met under very different circumstances.”
“So do I, son.” There’s an air of finality in Henry’s words, and Michael knows the call is coming to an end. “You take care of that new family of yours now, okay? Don’t get any ideas about breaking out to avoid paying the hospital bill.”
“I will, Henry. Look after yourself.”
It’s only after the other man disconnects the line that he realises he hadn’t thought to ask after Henry’s wife or health. Perhaps he can be forgiven. It’s not every day he becomes a father and faces a ghost from his past within the space of a few hours. He rises to his feet, suddenly feeling as though he’s just woken from a ten hour nap. You can’t run from your past, he thinks, but the future is so much easier to embrace when you stop looking over your shoulder.
He visits the nursery on his way back to Sara’s room, joining two other fathers in gazing adoringly through the glass at the tiny rows of cribs. His daughter is the third baby from the right, and even from this distance he can see she has her mother’s nose and chin. His eyes blur once more, and he rests his forehead against the cool glass, his smile stretching from ear to ear, and again fights the urge to pinch himself.
Sara is awake by the time he returns to her room, and she waves a languid hand at him in greeting. “Where did you escape to?” she murmurs, her gaze sweeping over him with lazy speculation. “Not thinking of running out on us already, are you?”
He grins. There are brilliantly colored flowers on almost every surface in the room around her, but her smile is still the brightest thing he’s seen in days. “Thought I’d stretch my legs while you were sleeping.” He bends to kiss the top of her head, closing his eyes as she slides her hand around the back of his neck, her palm cool against his skin. “I needed to make a few calls. Didn’t want to wake you.” He inhales the sweet scent of her hair, stronger than any antiseptic or disinfectant, and wonders what the nurses would say if he climbed into bed beside her.
She tilts her head, and he feels the warm brush of her lips against his throat. “Anyone I know?”
He hesitates, then decides against telling her about Henry, at least not tonight. Tonight isn’t the time for looking backwards. He smoothes his hand over her tousled hair, drawing her head against his heart. “Just a few of your friends.”
Late the next morning, just as their daughter has finished her breakfast, a large arrangement of dark pink roses appears in the doorway, almost dwarfing the young nurse carrying it into the room. He gently take India from her mother’s arms, and watches as Sara plucks the card from the middle of the mass of blooms, her lips moving as she reads it. She blinks, then looks at him with glittering eyes. “It’s from Henry Pope and his wife.”
“Well, that’s nice of -”
“You’re such a bad liar,” Sara whispers, one arm winding around his neck, the other curling around the small bundle of warmth cradled against his chest. “You called him, didn’t you?”
“Yes.” He bends his head to hers, his senses filled with the mingled scent of woman and child, fresh and new and sweetly intoxicating and his. “Are you angry?”
“No.” She laughs softly, a breathy sound that rises up in the air around him. “I’m impressed.”
He smiles, unable to resist the urge to preen, if only a little. “By my social skills?”
“No, that he didn’t hang up on you,” she murmurs smilingly as she relieves him of the baby and settles her in the cot with a natural flair that should surprise him but doesn’t.
“Well, I’m a very hard person to hang up on.” Reaching out, he tugs gently on a wayward tumbling curl of auburn hair. “You should know that.” It is, he realises with a start, the same tentatively teasing reasoning he’d used with Henry only moments earlier; it seems he’s facing more than one ghost from his past in this little hospital.
“I do.” Sara lifts one hand to his face, the curve of her palm cradling his cheek, the other hand still resting on the side of her daughter’s cot, as though she cannot bear to let either of them go. “I do,” she says again, her smile lighting up her whole face, and he knows that his timing is finally perfect.
~*~
Fandom: Prison Break
Characters: Michael Scofield, Sara Tancredi, special guest appearance by a special guest
Pairing: Michael/Sara
Length: 2,210 words
Rating: PG-13
Summary: You can't look to the future while you're still running from your past. This story is Non-Epilogue-Compliant and does not follow Season Three or Season Four in any way, shape or form.
Author's Note:This story is part of the Full Circle series. It takes place between the 'end' and the 'epilogue' of both Safe House and India, and will no doubt make more sense if you're familiar with this wacky alternate universe of mine. The plotbunny belongs to scribblecat, as usual. I wrote this tonight for myself, for my friends, and for a couple of girls who are probably too sad to read this right now, but I want them to know that we're all in this together and I am not going anywhere and that I am going to do whatever I can to make it better. *hugs you*
~*~
He places a tick next to Katie’s cell phone number, the scratch of the pen against paper almost loud in the silent hospital room. It’s just after nine o’clock, the maternity ward has settled into a temporary hush he knows will no doubt be broken within minutes. He’d left a halting message on Katie’s voicemail, belatedly realizing she could be working late at Fox River. Maybe he should have waited until morning, but Sara had sleepily rattled off her former colleague’s number as she’d drifted off into a well-deserved nap, and who was he to deny the wishes of a woman who’d just spent five hours in labor?
He smiles, gently rubbing the heel of his right hand against the tender knuckles of his left. The last few hours have been both a blur and a crystal clear memory etched into his brain, but at least he’d remembered to keep his writing hand from being squeezed to death.
His daughter - the most beautiful creature he’s ever seen aside from her mother - is also sleeping peacefully, albeit down the corridor in the nursery. He’d tried to convince the nurse to leave the cot in Sara’s room, but she’d simply given him a knowing smile. “I know it doesn’t feel like it now, but pretty soon you’ll be praying for a few hours peace. Let mom sleep while she can, okay?” The nurse eyed him wryly. “You look as though you could use a nap yourself.”
He’d grinned at her. “Later.”
Now, he leans back in the visitor’s chair beside Sara’s bed, his still-tender left hand entwined with hers, tapping the tip of his pen against the names on his regrettably short list. Lincoln and LJ and Jane, well, they’ve already been and gone, leaving behind a veritable forest of hothouse flowers that must have cost a fortune. He scans the rest of the names, smiling as he thinks of the different reactions. Sucre had literally burst into song at the news, before plunging the conversation into a feast of joyous Spanish, leaving Michael frantically trying to catch more than every third word. Bruce Bennett had been as reserved as always but obviously pleased, promising to call the next day so he could speak to the new mother. And with that message for Katie, that’s all his calls made.
He frowns at the list in his hand. There should be more, he thinks. She deserves more. A name flashes into his head, a face they’d both known so well, and his heart sinks. He doubts his call would be welcomed, but perhaps once he explained why he was calling -
Lifting his head, he gazes at the sleeping woman beside him, his throat tightening with a tender longing that almost shocks him in its intensity. Her hair has come loose from the ponytail she’d calmly fashioned as she’d announced she was in labor and it was time to go to the hospital. She’s wearing no makeup, not even her beloved lip balm, but that does nothing to detract from the pale glow of her skin, the flush of colour high on her cheeks. Her lips are curved as if in a smile, and he can’t resist the invitation. She stirs gently as he kisses her, her lips parting softly beneath his, but she doesn’t wake. “I love you,” he whispers into her ear, grinning as she smiles in her sleep. “So much.”
The hallway is brightly lit, a comforting familiarity that makes him feel as though he could be in any hospital anywhere in the world. Two of the nurses working the night shift give him indulgent smiles as he approaches their workstation, and he suddenly imagines he has, “I’m a new father!” tattooed across his forehead instead of redundant directions to freedom hidden beneath his long-sleeved t-shirt. “Ah, excuse me?”
The older of the two women looks at him. “Yes?”
“I need to make a call but I don’t want to wake my wife -” Even now, saying that last word makes him feel as though he should pinch himself.
“Sure, sure.” She points down the hallway, away from the nursery. “There’s a waiting room along that way. You can grab some coffee if you want.”
A few minutes later, he’s pacing the small waiting room, like any nervous father-to-be. Of course, his child has already been born safe and sound, and his wife is sleeping peacefully. His stomach is curling into nervous threads for a very different reason, and he knows he has to make this call while he still thinks there’s the slightest chance it might be a good idea.
The time is nine-fifteen now, which means it’s nine-fifteen in Chicago, which means he really has no excuse not to call. He drops into a chair and dials the number for information before he can talk himself out of it, his heels drumming nervously on the hard floor as he waits for his call to be answered. It only takes a few minutes to obtain the number he needs, and he can’t help wondering why things work out smoothly only when you really don’t want them to.
He dials the number quickly, again before he can think better of it, and it’s picked up on the second ring. At the sound of the gruff, familiar voice, his stomach lurches, and he’s suddenly back in Fox River, begging to be understood. “Henry.”
There’s a silence, thick and wary, then a sound that might be a greeting if it didn’t sound so much like a growl. “I have nothing to say to you, Scofield,” Henry Pope tells him in a voice brittle with anger.
“Please don’t hang up, Henry. Please.” He’s on his feet now, as though that might make a difference. “I’m calling about Sara.” There’s another silence, as thick as the first, and Michael closes his eyes, pressing the phone harder against his ear. “I’ll only take a minute of your time, I promise.”
“You have sixty seconds.”
“She’s had a baby. I mean, we’ve had a baby. This afternoon. A girl. Her name is India.” The words trip over his tongue and into the phone, a rush of entreaty, making him breathless. “I know you have no time for me and I understand, I do, but I know Sara would want you to know, and I’m sorry to call so late, but I just-”
“Michael.” He breaks off at the sound of his name, swallowing hard against the rush of words, sinking back into his chair as the other man clears his throat. “Take a breath, son.” There’s another pause, but this time it doesn’t make Michael feel like squirming. “A girl, you say?”
“Yes.” His eyes have blurred, whether with tears of joy at the thought of his daughter or relief that this man has yet to hang up on him, he doesn’t know. “Seven pounds, two ounces.”
“Congratulations,” Henry says, and he sounds as though he means it. “Going to make an honest woman out of her mother?”
Michael grins into the phone. “I already have. Two months ago.”
“Cutting it a little fine, don’t you think?”
Michael’s grin widens at the memory of his wedding day, the way Sara’s flowing gown had both concealed and enhanced the voluptuous swell of her belly. “My timing’s always been a little off, Henry.” He hesitates, then decides he needs to exorcise this demon straight up. “You should know that.”
“I do.” Yet another pause, then Henry clears his throat again. When he speaks again, his voice is tinged with a warmth Michael never thought he’d hear again. “Sara’s well, I take it?”
“She’s fine,” he answers, unable to keep the smile from his face at the thought of the woman sleeping down the hallway. “Tired, but absolutely fine.”
“Where are you now?”
Michael blinks. “Uh, Panama City.”
Henry Pope chuckles, another sound Michael thought he’d never hear again. “No, son, which hospital?”
Feeling faintly sheepish, Michael rattles off the name of the hospital, then takes a deep breath. “Thank you, Henry.”
“For what?”
Michael flicks his thumb against the split plastic casing of the arm of his uncomfortable chair. “For not hanging up on me.”
“My retirement gave me a lot more time to follow the news, Michael,” Henry says dryly. “Let’s just say that the story behind President Reynolds’ resignation didn’t escape my attention.”
The deep breath he’d just taken seems to rush from his lungs. “I wish-” He hesitates, not wanting to end this conversation on a raw note but knowing he has to get these words out before they fester and sour inside him. “I wish we’d met under very different circumstances.”
“So do I, son.” There’s an air of finality in Henry’s words, and Michael knows the call is coming to an end. “You take care of that new family of yours now, okay? Don’t get any ideas about breaking out to avoid paying the hospital bill.”
“I will, Henry. Look after yourself.”
It’s only after the other man disconnects the line that he realises he hadn’t thought to ask after Henry’s wife or health. Perhaps he can be forgiven. It’s not every day he becomes a father and faces a ghost from his past within the space of a few hours. He rises to his feet, suddenly feeling as though he’s just woken from a ten hour nap. You can’t run from your past, he thinks, but the future is so much easier to embrace when you stop looking over your shoulder.
He visits the nursery on his way back to Sara’s room, joining two other fathers in gazing adoringly through the glass at the tiny rows of cribs. His daughter is the third baby from the right, and even from this distance he can see she has her mother’s nose and chin. His eyes blur once more, and he rests his forehead against the cool glass, his smile stretching from ear to ear, and again fights the urge to pinch himself.
Sara is awake by the time he returns to her room, and she waves a languid hand at him in greeting. “Where did you escape to?” she murmurs, her gaze sweeping over him with lazy speculation. “Not thinking of running out on us already, are you?”
He grins. There are brilliantly colored flowers on almost every surface in the room around her, but her smile is still the brightest thing he’s seen in days. “Thought I’d stretch my legs while you were sleeping.” He bends to kiss the top of her head, closing his eyes as she slides her hand around the back of his neck, her palm cool against his skin. “I needed to make a few calls. Didn’t want to wake you.” He inhales the sweet scent of her hair, stronger than any antiseptic or disinfectant, and wonders what the nurses would say if he climbed into bed beside her.
She tilts her head, and he feels the warm brush of her lips against his throat. “Anyone I know?”
He hesitates, then decides against telling her about Henry, at least not tonight. Tonight isn’t the time for looking backwards. He smoothes his hand over her tousled hair, drawing her head against his heart. “Just a few of your friends.”
Late the next morning, just as their daughter has finished her breakfast, a large arrangement of dark pink roses appears in the doorway, almost dwarfing the young nurse carrying it into the room. He gently take India from her mother’s arms, and watches as Sara plucks the card from the middle of the mass of blooms, her lips moving as she reads it. She blinks, then looks at him with glittering eyes. “It’s from Henry Pope and his wife.”
“Well, that’s nice of -”
“You’re such a bad liar,” Sara whispers, one arm winding around his neck, the other curling around the small bundle of warmth cradled against his chest. “You called him, didn’t you?”
“Yes.” He bends his head to hers, his senses filled with the mingled scent of woman and child, fresh and new and sweetly intoxicating and his. “Are you angry?”
“No.” She laughs softly, a breathy sound that rises up in the air around him. “I’m impressed.”
He smiles, unable to resist the urge to preen, if only a little. “By my social skills?”
“No, that he didn’t hang up on you,” she murmurs smilingly as she relieves him of the baby and settles her in the cot with a natural flair that should surprise him but doesn’t.
“Well, I’m a very hard person to hang up on.” Reaching out, he tugs gently on a wayward tumbling curl of auburn hair. “You should know that.” It is, he realises with a start, the same tentatively teasing reasoning he’d used with Henry only moments earlier; it seems he’s facing more than one ghost from his past in this little hospital.
“I do.” Sara lifts one hand to his face, the curve of her palm cradling his cheek, the other hand still resting on the side of her daughter’s cot, as though she cannot bear to let either of them go. “I do,” she says again, her smile lighting up her whole face, and he knows that his timing is finally perfect.
~*~