Cold Comfort; 1/1
Title: Cold Comfort
Pairing: Sara, Michael/Sara
Summary: If only they’d known each other somewhere else. Spoilers for 3x04 Good Fences.
Note: For
bertiebob, only it's all angsty, so maybe just the good parts :(
My goodbye to Prison Break, if you will. And because anything that emotionally unsatisfying requires fictional catharsis.
can you recall what we once knew?
somewhere without the pain
i feel afraid now but not alone
we will meet again
-vast, we will meet again
If only they’d had more time.
She ponders this as the isolation of her capture sets in, reflecting on how cruelly fate has handled her life these last few months - introducing Michael Scofield to her heart, but wrenching away everything else that ever mattered. She can hear low voices in the adjoining room - L.J. is in there, another poor, innocent victim in this whole debacle - and obviously they have decided it’s too risky leaving them alone.
The musty smell of dust from both age and the desert outside crawls over her skin, invading her nostrils and settling somewhere in the back of her throat, making it burn. The heat lingers endlessly in the air, making her perspire under her arms and at the back of her thighs, sticking almost rigidly to the hard wooden chair. She’s almost used to the discomfort by now. The ropes wound tightly around her wrists chafe painfully, itchy and coarse against her skin, primitive restraints at best, and yet they do the job.
This isn’t like the last time she was captured - Kellerman, at least, wanted something from her, considered her almost valuable. This is interminable limbo - she’s only some minor trifle in a bigger battle, a tool to manipulate Michael’s emotions, to make him do what they need.
If only they’d known each other somewhere else.
They could have met in a bar back in college, slowly sidling away from their friends until they were cooped away in the corner all night, discussing philosophy or Gandhi or whatever it was college aged Michael Scofield wanted to talk about. The beer would have settled pleasantly in her stomach, numbing her midterm anxieties, letting her feel pleasantly surprised that here, here was a nice boy who was interested in her. Someone her father might actually approve of - which was a factor she was willing to overlook, for now. His broad shoulders would flex as he stretched, propping his arms on the bar to hide exhaustion from a late night of studying, because he wanted to stay and talk to her. They would have smiled, first shyly, then with a little more confidence as the night wore on, a secretive sort of amusement that hid their mutual idealism, the hopeful feeling that maybe this was something special. College Sara didn’t believe in something special, but perhaps a soft, earnest conversation with Michael Scofield would have changed all of that.
Maybe they would have gone back to his dorm. Maybe they would have gone back to hers. Maybe it would have been perfect.
They could have met before he became an inmate, at some charity function of her father’s. His firm would be involved, and she, of course, would be playing the good, obedient daughter again, the guileless humanitarian with a ruthless governor for a father. The champagne flute would sway inattentively in her hand as she listened to yet another self-important politician smooth talk his way into her father’s graces, and Michael would slide up to her side, quietly offer her another drink. An escape route, because he could obviously tell how bored and out of place she felt. Professional Michael would be smooth and silently confident, she would be intrigued. Maybe he would seem just as smarmy and full of himself as the men around them, but maybe she would see something more. Crinkles in his shirt and slight, barely visible five o’clock shadow on his cheeks, like he spent a lot of time working, and wanted everything to be as perfect, as methodical and planned as she did. And that immediate attraction would surge up unexpectedly between them, intense and unfamiliar. She would follow him to the bar, politely accept his offer of a drink. Something stronger than champagne, though, more like scotch, because there was only so much of the night she could tolerate. And Doctor Sara, reformed Sara, was cautious about men, she had a very colourful history to back that up, after all. They would chat and laugh and gradually grow more at ease, and he would ask her for her number. Gladdened by his company for the night, she would probably accept, all the while concealing her indomitable cynicism, because what, if anything, could come from this meeting with a stranger, at one of her father’s functions.
Maybe he would call. Maybe they would go to dinner. Maybe it would be the start of something new.
If they met on a beach in Panama, on vacation, he would most definitely be drawn by her swimsuit. A drawstring bikini, tantalisingly black, because she needed to lash out occasionally, and hiding herself from the inmates behind professional, non-revealing attire was exhausting in its precision. The waves would lap at the beach and he might be taking a walk, stray slowly to her side, ask her for the time or directions to the nearest bar, something completely lacking subtlety. She would laugh, but they’d continue talking, because she was on vacation and it was all right to relax, it was all right to meet someone new. A tall, dark, handsome American, who obviously needed a break about as much as she did, if the exhausted lines around his eyes were any indication. If the sun started to set before they finished talking she would ignore the romanticism, the bright colours glazed across the sky, because she didn’t believe in symbolism or ridiculous notions of fate and destiny. His voice would rumble softly over his request for a drink, a walk - maybe tomorrow? - any minor excuse to see her again in the morning.
Maybe they would keep in contact after their return to America. Maybe they would meet up again. Maybe they would fall in love, and be happy together, like both of them desperately needed to be.
Sara draws in a deep sigh, preparing herself as she hears shuffling on the other side of the door and a key grazing the lock, interrupting her fantasies. She still hasn’t paid for her earlier act with the shoe, her attempts to signal Lincoln, and she knows that something is imminent. They can’t afford to leave themselves open to any risks. They can’t afford to let her think she can get away with such a thing, that she might signal the brothers a second time.
The door opens and a dark, solitary figure appears, face inscrutable in the shadows, moving with a measured calm, a grim deliberation. She remains still in her chair, barely reacting, barely twitching in place, because she has known, in her heart, what is coming all along.
She has known and she stays strong. Because these are the thoughts she comforts herself with.
end
Pairing: Sara, Michael/Sara
Summary: If only they’d known each other somewhere else. Spoilers for 3x04 Good Fences.
Note: For
bertiebob, only it's all angsty, so maybe just the good parts :(
My goodbye to Prison Break, if you will. And because anything that emotionally unsatisfying requires fictional catharsis.
can you recall what we once knew?
somewhere without the pain
i feel afraid now but not alone
we will meet again
-vast, we will meet again
If only they’d had more time.
She ponders this as the isolation of her capture sets in, reflecting on how cruelly fate has handled her life these last few months - introducing Michael Scofield to her heart, but wrenching away everything else that ever mattered. She can hear low voices in the adjoining room - L.J. is in there, another poor, innocent victim in this whole debacle - and obviously they have decided it’s too risky leaving them alone.
The musty smell of dust from both age and the desert outside crawls over her skin, invading her nostrils and settling somewhere in the back of her throat, making it burn. The heat lingers endlessly in the air, making her perspire under her arms and at the back of her thighs, sticking almost rigidly to the hard wooden chair. She’s almost used to the discomfort by now. The ropes wound tightly around her wrists chafe painfully, itchy and coarse against her skin, primitive restraints at best, and yet they do the job.
This isn’t like the last time she was captured - Kellerman, at least, wanted something from her, considered her almost valuable. This is interminable limbo - she’s only some minor trifle in a bigger battle, a tool to manipulate Michael’s emotions, to make him do what they need.
If only they’d known each other somewhere else.
They could have met in a bar back in college, slowly sidling away from their friends until they were cooped away in the corner all night, discussing philosophy or Gandhi or whatever it was college aged Michael Scofield wanted to talk about. The beer would have settled pleasantly in her stomach, numbing her midterm anxieties, letting her feel pleasantly surprised that here, here was a nice boy who was interested in her. Someone her father might actually approve of - which was a factor she was willing to overlook, for now. His broad shoulders would flex as he stretched, propping his arms on the bar to hide exhaustion from a late night of studying, because he wanted to stay and talk to her. They would have smiled, first shyly, then with a little more confidence as the night wore on, a secretive sort of amusement that hid their mutual idealism, the hopeful feeling that maybe this was something special. College Sara didn’t believe in something special, but perhaps a soft, earnest conversation with Michael Scofield would have changed all of that.
Maybe they would have gone back to his dorm. Maybe they would have gone back to hers. Maybe it would have been perfect.
They could have met before he became an inmate, at some charity function of her father’s. His firm would be involved, and she, of course, would be playing the good, obedient daughter again, the guileless humanitarian with a ruthless governor for a father. The champagne flute would sway inattentively in her hand as she listened to yet another self-important politician smooth talk his way into her father’s graces, and Michael would slide up to her side, quietly offer her another drink. An escape route, because he could obviously tell how bored and out of place she felt. Professional Michael would be smooth and silently confident, she would be intrigued. Maybe he would seem just as smarmy and full of himself as the men around them, but maybe she would see something more. Crinkles in his shirt and slight, barely visible five o’clock shadow on his cheeks, like he spent a lot of time working, and wanted everything to be as perfect, as methodical and planned as she did. And that immediate attraction would surge up unexpectedly between them, intense and unfamiliar. She would follow him to the bar, politely accept his offer of a drink. Something stronger than champagne, though, more like scotch, because there was only so much of the night she could tolerate. And Doctor Sara, reformed Sara, was cautious about men, she had a very colourful history to back that up, after all. They would chat and laugh and gradually grow more at ease, and he would ask her for her number. Gladdened by his company for the night, she would probably accept, all the while concealing her indomitable cynicism, because what, if anything, could come from this meeting with a stranger, at one of her father’s functions.
Maybe he would call. Maybe they would go to dinner. Maybe it would be the start of something new.
If they met on a beach in Panama, on vacation, he would most definitely be drawn by her swimsuit. A drawstring bikini, tantalisingly black, because she needed to lash out occasionally, and hiding herself from the inmates behind professional, non-revealing attire was exhausting in its precision. The waves would lap at the beach and he might be taking a walk, stray slowly to her side, ask her for the time or directions to the nearest bar, something completely lacking subtlety. She would laugh, but they’d continue talking, because she was on vacation and it was all right to relax, it was all right to meet someone new. A tall, dark, handsome American, who obviously needed a break about as much as she did, if the exhausted lines around his eyes were any indication. If the sun started to set before they finished talking she would ignore the romanticism, the bright colours glazed across the sky, because she didn’t believe in symbolism or ridiculous notions of fate and destiny. His voice would rumble softly over his request for a drink, a walk - maybe tomorrow? - any minor excuse to see her again in the morning.
Maybe they would keep in contact after their return to America. Maybe they would meet up again. Maybe they would fall in love, and be happy together, like both of them desperately needed to be.
Sara draws in a deep sigh, preparing herself as she hears shuffling on the other side of the door and a key grazing the lock, interrupting her fantasies. She still hasn’t paid for her earlier act with the shoe, her attempts to signal Lincoln, and she knows that something is imminent. They can’t afford to leave themselves open to any risks. They can’t afford to let her think she can get away with such a thing, that she might signal the brothers a second time.
The door opens and a dark, solitary figure appears, face inscrutable in the shadows, moving with a measured calm, a grim deliberation. She remains still in her chair, barely reacting, barely twitching in place, because she has known, in her heart, what is coming all along.
She has known and she stays strong. Because these are the thoughts she comforts herself with.
end