Tick Tock
Title: Tick Tock
Author: wrldpossibility
Characters: Sara Tancredi/Michael Scofield, S1 ensemble
Word Count: 5455
Rating: R, a bit of language
Part: Year 1
Chapter: 5
Summary: Lincoln is granted clemency. The escape is off. Michael has a five-year sentence to serve.
Author's Note: It's come to my attention that Tick Tock has the potential to become the basis for a drinking game...a shot for every time a clock or the theme of time is mentioned. *ponders and grins* I'm sure that was a joke, but um, if not, drink responsibly and all that, and I hope you can hold your alcohol, because otherwise this could get very sloppy. *g* On a serious note, thank you everyone for reading, as always. If you're in need of a refresher course, past chapters can be found here.
Day Nine
She’d been jumpy all morning. Now, with the hands of the clock finally creeping toward 1 pm, she found herself feeling downright nervous. Her palms were damp with sweat as she tidied her desk after lunch, her heart pounding so hard in her chest she half-expected Katie to turn around at any moment, interrupted from the task of cataloguing patient files by the sound of it thumping ridiculously against her ribcage.
In five minutes time--no, four minutes now--he would appear with his C.O. in the hallway, and the anticipation--both terrifying and exhilarating--was building in the pit of her stomach, lying in wait like both a reunion she desperately looked forward to and an announcement she dreaded hearing. But that was ludicrous, she told herself. She had nothing to dread, nor, of course, anything to which to assign disproportionate eagerness. She had just seen him yesterday, discharging him back to Gen Pop. She‘d see him tomorrow, for that matter, as well as the next day and the day after that…just as she had seen him nearly every day of his stint in Fox River. She shook her head as though to clear it. He would appear in the hallway, she repeated to herself, and her role would be to do nothing more than she had done every other day for the past several months.
Nothing more, perhaps, but definitely something significantly less.
She was about to pass saline off as insulin, and it was this deception they were about to embark upon that was panicking her. She knew that, of course. The heady thrill of a new relationship was literally swimming before her eyes as she glanced again at the clock, but the tipsy excitement she should have felt--wanted to feel so badly--was just out of reach, muted and dimmed by a tension born of perpetuating a fraud. Joy and guilt remained starkly at odds within the confines of her mind, and as she watched darkly as the minute-hand aligned with the top of the hour, she took a deep breath, blowing the air out of her nose so violently that this time, Katie did turn to regard her.
“You all right?”
Sara forced a smile. It had been difficult enough explaining away the pugnac. The last thing she needed was Katie suspecting she had anything to do with Michael’s creative pharmaceutical hobbies, past or present. “Sure,” she began, then immediately changed course. She might as well offer Katie something she stood a chance of selling. “Distracted, actually. Just one of those days my mind feels a million miles away.”
Katie smiled back. “I could use a vacation myself,” she agreed. “Somewhere warm…preferably with sunsets and ocean vistas.” She chuckled, then nodded her head toward the office window. “Speaking of pleasant views…”
Sara turned, and even though she already knew who she’d see, the sight of Michael walking into the sick bay left her faintly dizzy. He looked a bit charged himself, his eyes quite nearly cobalt against the pale blue of his shirt as his gaze sought hers through the glass. Sara looked down quickly, but all the same, the discreet hum of exhilaration radiating from him seemed to cut right through her.
She knew she needed to answer Katie. She needed to laugh, or say something witty, or preferably both, but absolutely nothing was rising to the surface of her brain. Instead, she stood in place numbly, fighting against a disorienting current of attraction and restless misgiving, and only when she distantly heard someone say something flippant about harassment charges did she realize the voice was her own. She managed an awkward laugh, then fumbled the catch on the file drawer as she reached for Michael‘s chart, all the while acutely aware that she had just said something that was no doubt profoundly stupid. When, to her relief, her fingers finally closed around the manila file, she straightened abruptly and made for the exit with only a hurried wave in Katie’s direction.
*****
First, do no harm.
She prepared his tray with shaky hands. Only a matter of days ago, she had sat next to Lincoln and told him she hadn’t gone to medical school in order to convince the state he was healthy enough to kill. Now, pulling her stool over to sit next to Michael, she was also pretty certain she hadn’t given up over six years of her life just to inject a healthy man with pseudo medication, every day, for what may amount to five full years. And yet, here they were.
But who was she harming, really? Certainly not Michael…the saline would flow through his veins as harmlessly as water. Not Katie, or even The Pope--what did he care if Michael Scofield spent ten minutes of every day staring at the prison doctor? She was only harming herself of course, or at least risking harm, but the truth was, it was almost comforting to know that some things never changed. Because she wanted to do this. The idea of Michael not here, every day, was disturbingly bleak, and the knowledge that he disliked her dirtying of her hands only made her want to help him--help them--even more.
They didn’t talk as Sara prepared the syringe. Katie had been called into the sick bay and the C.O. had wandered off to chat with an orderly, and the knowledge that they were as alone as they were likely to get pressed urgently at the back of her mind. She wanted to say something. Each second that passed while she fiddled with the saline and stared down at the tray was one they’d never get back, and twice, she opened her mouth to speak, but each time, the words were lost somewhere near the back of her throat. She watched Michael flick a glance toward the empty hallway, then shift on his seat, and suddenly the gravity of what they were doing seemed to increase ten-fold.
They were at a juncture, and for the first time, Sara felt she had a choice. Michael was no longer acting in desperation. She was no longer being played. The moment she slid the needle under his skin today, their relationship would shift irrevocably from circumstantial to intentional. Michael had said it was real, and it felt real, in both its careful deliberation and the consequences that seemed to lurk just out of sight.
As though she’d spoken aloud, he looked up from the tray to her face. He didn‘t touch her, but she felt the shift of his attention with a jolt as physical as if he had. “You don’t have to do this,” he whispered.
She didn’t answer. She tapped the syringe, then reached for his hand. He didn’t pull back, but a single muscle along his bicep jumped then relaxed as she turned his wrist to expose the underside of his arm. Slowly, she trailed two fingers up his skin to find a vein, and when she felt it pulsing beneath the pad of her forefinger, she finally looked up. She kept her eyes steady on his as she slid the needle into his arm in one smooth motion.
*****
She half-expected to regret it. She had waited all the previous afternoon for the rush of remorse to overtake her, to burst like some sort of delayed bomb in her brain, detonated hours after it was due. Or maybe, she had mused, the guilt would manifest itself like aftershocks, catching her off-guard long after she felt the danger had passed. Either way, she imagined she would be otherwise occupied, standing perhaps at the fridge, or maybe at her door, her key in the lock, when reality hit and the bottom dropped out from under her. She waited for the catalyst that would finally cause the words--Oh God, what have I started?--to cross her lips, but even after leaving for home, even through dinner and a hurried catch-up on patient files, through several phone calls and late-night TV, it didn’t come.
She slept like a baby, and she didn‘t dream. In the morning, she awoke before her alarm, and in the blurry haze between consciousness and sleep, she experienced that vague stirring of good news…of something she was looking forward to but had momentarily forgotten during the night. It took her a beat to come up with it, and then…oh! Michael. She rolled over, pressing her face into her pillow as she smiled.
Day 10
24 hours after their first foray into deception, Michael told himself he was prepared for any emotion she threw his way. On the long walk to the infirmary, he braced himself for anger. Or worse, for regret. She’d had time for deliberation, after all, and he fully expected to find her with a well-honed argument or a tactful rejection.
He didn’t expect to find her already waiting for him in Exam 3. Unbelievably, she seemed shy. She greeted him somewhat awkwardly, mumbling something about needing to clean out a supply cupboard before his arrival, and he got the impression that despite the announcement of his presence by his C.O., he had somehow startled her. She attempted to regain her composure, smiling before offering him a seat with a wave of her hand and an odd little laugh, and Michael released a sigh of relief. Her actions were transparent enough to finally loosen the slow squeeze of anxiety that had gripped his heart since leaving this room the same time yesterday; Sara was a bit unsettled, but she certainly didn’t have the look of woman about to reject him.
He crossed to the exam table and sat, watching her until she seemed to gather herself, abandoning the disorderly rows of gauze and 4x4s unceremoniously before chancing a quick assessment of his face. He took the opportunity to return her earlier smile, eager to reassure her. “It’s fine,” he mouthed. “Are you ok?”
She nodded, but her eyes widened a bit, and he was desperate to say more, desperate to know precisely where she stood today, but the infirmary was crowded with a wave of new transfers needing physicals; almost a dozen inmates waited impatiently, spilling out into the hallway and talking and milling around just beyond the open door.
Sara crossed the room and pulled the privacy screen from its place in the corner, angling it slightly around Michael so that it blocked the view of the door. Perhaps, he thought with a slight shift of his head, she wasn’t feeling so shy after all.
“High traffic area today,” he noted carefully in a regular speaking voice.
“That’s why we have this, I guess.” Her inflection was casual, but he could hear the slight tremor of nerves behind it. He decided to take a chance.
“Is it?” he asked smoothly. “Too bad.”
She whipped her head around and rewarded him with a slightly breathless laugh. The sound seemed to shoot straight to his gut and then to…well…damn. The screen muted the light from the hallway as well as the noise, and as Sara stepped around it to sit beside him, reaching for her tray, she appeared somewhat filtered. Her hair spilled around her face and her lab coat softened to a light cream against her skin. The overhead lighting was strained through the screen like a sieve, casting them both in a shadow of such instantly created intimacy that Michael could scarcely breathe for fear of disturbing the delicate tableau.
Everything he planned to ask was swept away on a quick current of affection and desire. He shifted closer toward her, feeling wonderfully reckless as he reached for her, but once he was close enough to see the quickening of her pulse at the base of her neck, she suddenly appeared as delicate as bone china. She wasn‘t…he knew she wasn‘t…but he couldn‘t do this to her, not with an entire busload of convicts ten feet away.
“Sara,” he finally said simply, forcing his hands to rest back on the chilled sides of the table, and he wished she could know how incredibly badly he wanted to touch her. She was looking at him as though he might instantly disappear, and it was of some consolation to suspect that she did know, perhaps all too well. He formed her name again, and this time, his voice was so choked, he wondered if she had heard the two syllables at all. But she smiled back shakily, almost as though she were on the brink of tears herself, and then she was curling her fingers over his for the brief seconds it took to expose his vein and administer his shot.
“I know,” she breathed, and then their time was up.
Day 11
He was standing out in the yard at rec time when he saw her emerge from the side entrance. Beside him, Sucre was saying something about Maricruz and a visitation she had missed, but his words dissipated like a trail of vapor to the far recesses of Michael’s mind as he watched her walk toward her car. It must be the start of her lunch hour. He wandered in the direction of the fence, leaving Sucre to complain to someone else, all the while willing her to look over. Willing her to see him.
She did. Just as she skirted the fence, she looked over, and then immediately back down at her feet as her face blushed crimson. Damn. She did it to him again…a surge of pleasure was already traveling the length of his spine. She looked right back up, tucking a stray strand of hair back behind one ear as she veered from her course, cutting toward the fence.
“Hey.”
The day was warm; she had shed not only her lab coat but the light jacket he had become accustomed to seeing her wear as well. He took in her thin t-shirt, a soft green against her pale skin. For a moment, he considered discretion, then opted for the opposite course of action. He allowed his eyes to follow the jut of the V-neck where it traveled down then back up. She flushed anew, and he crossed his arms over his chest, trying very hard not to appear smug. “Hey,” he returned, rocking back slightly on his heels. “Green suits you, you know.”
She blinked, then cocked her head to one side, smiling. “Is that your idea of flirtation, Scofield? Because if so, I’ve heard better.”
He grinned back, raising both eyebrows to feign innocence. “Just calling it like I see it, Doc.” He deliberately lowered his eyes back to her neckline playfully, feeling his pulse quicken as she laughed, the sound a bit heady and decidedly more girlish than he suspected she intended.
“I’ll see you in an hour,” she managed, turning away.
He lowered his voice. “Yes, you will.”
She spun back with a fresh laugh that ended on an incredulous snort. This time, he was pretty sure her amusement was solely at his expense. “What sort of come-on is that supposed to be?”
“Sorry,” he answered quickly. Suddenly, his own face felt a bit hot. “I’m rusty. I’ll work on it.”
She smiled again. “I should think so.”
Day 14
He hadn’t seen her in two days, and he‘d never been so glad to see a Monday roll around. The weekend had crawled by, broken up only by a tense five minutes on Saturday afternoon during which he had been forced to wait in mounting stress as the weekend physician skimmed the note Sara had written in his chart before finally reaching into the exam room fridge to pull out his prepared syringe. Now, he shifted from foot to foot, waiting impatiently for her to come around the corner.
She was in a great mood. He knew it the second he laid eyes on her; she paused in the doorway to Exam 2 to throw some joke back over her shoulder to Katie, then entered the room with a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth that made her look about sixteen and made Michael instantly long to know exactly what she was thinking.
“Mr. Scofield,” she greeted as she crossed the room toward the cabinets.
“Doctor,” he returned casually. They were getting the hang of this. He watched as the C.O. outside the open door shuffled down the hallway in search of coffee, then swung his gaze back to Sara, letting his eyes linger unabashedly as she turned her back to him, reaching for the syringe and sterile sharp. She turned in time to catch him staring, and shot him a look that was perhaps one-fourth mild reproach and three-fourths blatant invitation, and the combination was so enticing Michael found himself literally squirming in his seat.
He was in a pretty damn good mood himself. He had met with Veronica just that morning, and according to her, Lincoln was scheduled to be transferred to Gen Pop some time today. “My brother is coming back to A Wing,” he told Sara conversationally as she pulled the stool up next to him.
She nodded, her eyes warm as they caught his own, and he couldn’t help feeling just a bit deflated. She already knew. He wasn’t surprised, but for whatever reason, he had been looking forward to being the one to break this news. He quickly tried to swallow his disappointment; he’d already served more than enough time in prison to become accustomed to the complete lack of control that permeated his life.
Her eyes flicked quickly across his face and back down to the prepared tray on its stand beside her. She read him like a book. “I wasn’t given any details,” she said. “Tell me what you know?”
The truth was, he didn’t have much more information himself, but as he relayed the few facts Veronica had given him, he found himself deeply touched by the gesture. He let her roll up his sleeve--it took longer that way--then snagged her gaze and held it as she slid the needle into his arm and injected him. He watched her bite her lower lip, her expression sobering somewhat, but her eyes were still lit with a subtle mischief when she stood, tossing the needle in the sharps receptacle. Directly behind her, the C.O. who had escorted Michael in wandered back down the hall and sat down heavily in a metal chair outside the door, steaming coffee cup in hand.
Sara saw him, too. Her shoulders stiffened just slightly, but when she turned back to Michael, her tone remained determinedly cheery over a barely discernable layer of anxiety. “I need a pulse,” she said, beckoning to him with both hands, her fingers flicking abruptly upward. He blinked, his mind racing in about twenty different directions before noticing the stethoscope in her hand and realizing she was asking. “Oh,” he said stupidly. “Up?” He tugged at the hem of his sweatshirt.
She seemed to consider. “Um, off? Actually?” His eyes widened slightly, and she looked away quickly, nearly smiling before overcompensating with an air of clipped professionalism. “If you don’t mind.”
He smirked. “I don’t mind.” In one smooth motion, he pulled the sweatshirt up and over his head.
“Thanks.”
“Whatever you need.”
She looked at him quickly, but must have decided to let the comment pass. Or, perhaps, he preferred to think, she had no comeback at her disposal. Either way, he was denied any further opportunity to gloat; her hand curved over his bare shoulder and as she leaned over him, listening to his heartbeat, and any other commentary was whisked from his brain. Her palm seemed to heat his flesh so effectively he wondered if it burned her skin as thoroughly as it burned his. At very least, she had be hearing a pulse that more closely mimicked a runner’s mid-marathon than the steady thump that was to be expected.
He was right. She paused, frowning slightly, then lifted the drum of the stethoscope and slid it into a slightly altered position. The tips of her fingers barely grazed his clavicle, and when she leaned forward again, the curtain of her hair fell forward, tickling his cheek. She pulled it back with her free hand with a shaky laugh. “I need you to relax,” she said.
He spoke into the curve of her neck as she leaned in to listen again, so close his lips nearly touched her collarbone. “In that case, I’ll need you to take at least three steps back,” he whispered, and he felt her still. “Or, you could cut whatever number you’re getting in about half, and call it good.”
She smiled, sliding the stethoscope back around her neck and rolling back away on the stool with a gentle push of one foot against the linoleum. “It doesn’t really matter. I left your chart in the hall anyway.”
He literally felt himself do a double-take. “Wait…you didn’t need to get my vital signs at all today?”
“No.”
“I see.” He paused, considering. “Um…thank you?”
Sara turned away, but not fast enough to hide the way the corners of her mouth twitched upward. “No,” she said breezily. “Thank you.”
He tried to laugh, but it came out closer to a choked cough. She looked back, curving one eyebrow up at him. “Ok?”
He forced a deep breath in and out. “You certainly are in a good mood today,” he observed dryly.
She tried to feign mild surprise, then dropped the pretense. Her face sobered. “Well, it occurred to me,” she began, “this news about Lincoln? It’s good for you, too.” She hesitated. “I imagine an ally in Gen Pop will be welcome.” She had crossed the room as she spoke, and now, stood back before him, her eyes intent on the lingering yellowed outlines of his bruises.
They hadn’t had opportunity to further discuss the issue of the ongoing abuse he suffered at the hands of the former P.I. crew, but he knew his ever-present smattering of wounds, both healing and fresh, had not escaped her attention. There wasn’t time to delve into it now, either, however, and he was forced to settle for a smile that he hoped was reassuring. “It will,” he agreed.
She nodded a bit briskly. “I’ll see him later today, you know.”
“Oh?”
“He needs a physical to be re-admitted to A Wing.” She cleared her throat, then paused, toying with the rubber tube of her stethoscope. He waited for her to say more, and when she didn’t, he had the distinct impression she was stalling.
“What is it?”
Still, she hesitated, then released a quick breath. “I just know you’re very close, you and Lincoln. I don’t want…I can’t be put in a position where my professionalism is compromised…in regard to him.”
He stared at her dumbly. “What?”
“Never mind.” She turned away, and he was about to press he further when he suddenly understood what she was asking.
“Wait.” He reached out to stop her, his hand skimming her hip. He jerked it back abruptly, then belatedly craned his head toward the door. No one. He laid it back against her, curving his fingers around her hipbone and drawing her back toward him. She let him.
“I would never speak to Lincoln about you.”
She remained very still. “Ok.” Her eyes flicked toward the clock on the wall and then abruptly back to his face. She took another deep breath. “This is all new territory for me Michael.”
“You don’t have to tell me that.”
She eyed the clock again. The minute hand was edging past the three. “I have to go.”
“I know.”
She turned, and he felt his fingers slip away from her pants. At the door, she turned, still worrying the stethoscope in her hands. “I wish…” She faltered, appearing to struggle for the words she wanted. “I mean…in another life? I’d want Lincoln to know.”
Day 16
She was smiling a lot lately. Also becoming routine? Her habit of watching the clock a bit incessantly throughout the mornings…10 am, then 11, and then 12. Today, she left the prison grounds for lunch, and when she returned, Katie was waiting for her in her office. That fact in and of itself was not unusual, but as Sara approached from the end of the hall, there was something about the tenseness of her posture that immediately put her on-edge. A sudden uprising of nerves shot through her stomach as she set her bag down carefully and turned to regard Katie cautiously. “Afternoon.”
Katie looked sober. “I’m sorry to hear about your father,” she offered.
“What about my father?”
Katie looked flustered. “It’s probably old news to you, but I only just saw,” she said hurriedly. “All this about the VP nomination?” She paused, probably because Sara was still staring at her blankly. “Oh, she amended softly. “You haven’t heard?”
“Katie?”
“Your father was offered and formally declined the VP nomination today. It was just on Channel 10.”
What was she talking about? She watched as Katie reached across her to the keyboard on her desk and pulled up MSN. A second later, her father’s face filled her monitor. She scanned the accompanying article, but even after reading the type, her mind was churning in a slow counter-current to the news like water swirling down a drain. Her dad was still in D.C. He would have called. He would have told her.
Shit. It was just as likely he wouldn’t. Katie was still talking, and she found herself answering numbly. “I didn’t even know he was up for consideration,” she said quietly.
“I’m sorry, Sara.” Katie was looking at her in genuine concern, and Sara forced a weak smile.
“I’m sure I’ll catch up with him about it soon.”
“Of course.” Katie was still looking at her cautiously, however. “You want me to take your one o’clock?”
Sara blinked. Her one o’clock. Her one o’clock. “No, that’s fine,” she blurted. “I’ve got it.” Katie looked a bit taken aback, and Sara somehow found the presence of mind to tamper her abrupt insistence with what she hoped passed as a grateful shrug of her shoulders. “I could use the distraction.”
*****
She was upset. He had no way of knowing why, and immediately, his imagination jumped wildly from one possible explanation to the next, until his stomach churned at the myriad of scenarios he had conjured. He thought he might be sick. The second they were alone, he didn‘t waste time mincing words. “What’s wrong?”
She shook her head. He swallowed…hard. With only a handful of minutes a day at their disposal, and even fewer in the relative privacy of the exam room, he would make no apology for being stingy with their time. “Sara,” he said more firmly. “What is wrong?”
She paused in her preparation of his shot, whether due to the insistent rise of his tone or in deliberation, he wasn’t sure. All the same, when she looked up at him, he caught a startled look in her eyes. “It’s not you,” she said hastily, as though the idea of him connecting her mood to their situation hadn‘t occurred to her. Perhaps it hadn‘t. She had just finished drawing up the syringe, and now she reached for his hand, squeezing his fingers very briefly in the way he had come to expect as she turned his hand over to inject his vein.
He was pretty sure he felt his heart constrict along with his fingers. “Are you sure?” He was relieved, but the urgency in his tone persisted. He did nothing to alter it. Outside the room, the C.O. was shifting on his seat, and above their heads, the clock was ticking. This was urgent.
She paused again, and then spoke just as the needle pricked his skin. “My father?” she began, and he would have smiled at the questioning inflection of her words had he not seen the way her jaw tensed as she said them. It wasn’t likely he needed reminding who her father was. She took a breath, drew the needle back out of his arm, and continued very matter-of-factly. “He was forced to decline the VP nomination today.”
Michael blinked. “Because of Lincoln?” His arm still lay against the cold metal tray, and he would have moved it to roll back down his sleeve, but her fingers were still flat atop his, and maybe, if he stayed very still, she’d leave them there a second or two longer.
She nodded. “Probably.”
Michael frowned. She was a bit of a closed book today, and while the obvious guess was to assume she resented Lincoln’s role in her father’s political stumble, he was inclined to think it may be something else entirely. He studied the pale curve of her throat where an heated flush was creeping up her neck as though he were attempting to read tea leaves, and when he could reveal nothing, he felt his frustration build. “I’m sorry,” he offered. “That must be a big disappointment.”
She looked surprised. “No,” she shrugged, reaching for a cotton ball from the jar to press to his arm, but at the barely discernable tremor to her voice, he glanced up from the white fluff against his skin to seek her eyes. “I only found out as it was announced, just now.”
His face must have literally fallen at this admission, because she frowned back at him, then rose to grab his chart from the wall. “I’m sorry, Sara,“ he said again, and this time, his own voice shook with emotion. Her distress made sense now. Upon her explanation, his mind replayed her injured appearance at the exam room door, and now knowing its cause, he felt his blood begin to boil. He was somewhat surprised at the degree of indignation he felt on her behalf. “That’s inexcusable.”
“It is what it is.”
She was looking back at him almost willfully, her eyes shining with a false bravado he suspected she didn’t even realize was there. He ached for her. He’d seen this look on her face before. At least once, he had been privy to it through the slats of the rec yard fence as he had assured her he wasn’t one to judge her on the merits of her father.
Maybe she saw the anger in his own eyes, or something else entirely that he hadn’t intended to reveal, because she took a step back both literally and figuratively. “I’ll be fine,” she said, and before she left the room, she offered him a smile that revealed a strength that took his breath away. A strength he knew a lesser woman would not have had to give.
*****
Sara caught her father on the phone later that afternoon, and didn‘t waste time on preliminaries. “I’m your daughter, and I’m the last to know you were up for the VP nomination? Do you know how insulting that is?”
His answer was so condescending, she flinched. “I hardly saw the point in bringing it up.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means, Sara, that the second I signed the clemency for that scumbag of yours, I knew I was throwing away the nomination.” He sighed heavily into the phone. “Of course, I hardly expect you to understand that.”
“Dad.”
“In fact, all I do expect from you is a little understanding, once in a while, of the public nature of my job. It would be great if every so often, you didn’t work so damn hard to counter every stand I take. Is that too much to ask?”
Sara bit her lip. She nearly…very nearly…flipped her cell phone shut, but instead, she took a breath and squared her shoulders. “I’ll do my best.”
Her father laughed bitterly. “An ambiguous response. Well played. God forbid you actually commit to something. Should have been a fucking lawyer.”
A moment later, he had hung up on her, and Sara sat heavily back down at her desk. He was going to pull her away from Fox River. It wouldn’t be the first time he manipulated her life purely out of spite, and now, the dread of it sat like a rock in the pit of her stomach. Suddenly the sheer weight of all these interlocking events left her weary. Michael had linked her to Lincoln who had linked her to this case that linked her to her father. She knew he would now lock this whole thing down tight, chaining her to the agenda he saw fit, holding her to her word. In exchange for Lincoln’s clemency, her father had bought Sara‘s obedience, and even while she railed against it, she knew he would insist on getting his money’s worth.
Author: wrldpossibility
Characters: Sara Tancredi/Michael Scofield, S1 ensemble
Word Count: 5455
Rating: R, a bit of language
Part: Year 1
Chapter: 5
Summary: Lincoln is granted clemency. The escape is off. Michael has a five-year sentence to serve.
Author's Note: It's come to my attention that Tick Tock has the potential to become the basis for a drinking game...a shot for every time a clock or the theme of time is mentioned. *ponders and grins* I'm sure that was a joke, but um, if not, drink responsibly and all that, and I hope you can hold your alcohol, because otherwise this could get very sloppy. *g* On a serious note, thank you everyone for reading, as always. If you're in need of a refresher course, past chapters can be found here.
Day Nine
She’d been jumpy all morning. Now, with the hands of the clock finally creeping toward 1 pm, she found herself feeling downright nervous. Her palms were damp with sweat as she tidied her desk after lunch, her heart pounding so hard in her chest she half-expected Katie to turn around at any moment, interrupted from the task of cataloguing patient files by the sound of it thumping ridiculously against her ribcage.
In five minutes time--no, four minutes now--he would appear with his C.O. in the hallway, and the anticipation--both terrifying and exhilarating--was building in the pit of her stomach, lying in wait like both a reunion she desperately looked forward to and an announcement she dreaded hearing. But that was ludicrous, she told herself. She had nothing to dread, nor, of course, anything to which to assign disproportionate eagerness. She had just seen him yesterday, discharging him back to Gen Pop. She‘d see him tomorrow, for that matter, as well as the next day and the day after that…just as she had seen him nearly every day of his stint in Fox River. She shook her head as though to clear it. He would appear in the hallway, she repeated to herself, and her role would be to do nothing more than she had done every other day for the past several months.
Nothing more, perhaps, but definitely something significantly less.
She was about to pass saline off as insulin, and it was this deception they were about to embark upon that was panicking her. She knew that, of course. The heady thrill of a new relationship was literally swimming before her eyes as she glanced again at the clock, but the tipsy excitement she should have felt--wanted to feel so badly--was just out of reach, muted and dimmed by a tension born of perpetuating a fraud. Joy and guilt remained starkly at odds within the confines of her mind, and as she watched darkly as the minute-hand aligned with the top of the hour, she took a deep breath, blowing the air out of her nose so violently that this time, Katie did turn to regard her.
“You all right?”
Sara forced a smile. It had been difficult enough explaining away the pugnac. The last thing she needed was Katie suspecting she had anything to do with Michael’s creative pharmaceutical hobbies, past or present. “Sure,” she began, then immediately changed course. She might as well offer Katie something she stood a chance of selling. “Distracted, actually. Just one of those days my mind feels a million miles away.”
Katie smiled back. “I could use a vacation myself,” she agreed. “Somewhere warm…preferably with sunsets and ocean vistas.” She chuckled, then nodded her head toward the office window. “Speaking of pleasant views…”
Sara turned, and even though she already knew who she’d see, the sight of Michael walking into the sick bay left her faintly dizzy. He looked a bit charged himself, his eyes quite nearly cobalt against the pale blue of his shirt as his gaze sought hers through the glass. Sara looked down quickly, but all the same, the discreet hum of exhilaration radiating from him seemed to cut right through her.
She knew she needed to answer Katie. She needed to laugh, or say something witty, or preferably both, but absolutely nothing was rising to the surface of her brain. Instead, she stood in place numbly, fighting against a disorienting current of attraction and restless misgiving, and only when she distantly heard someone say something flippant about harassment charges did she realize the voice was her own. She managed an awkward laugh, then fumbled the catch on the file drawer as she reached for Michael‘s chart, all the while acutely aware that she had just said something that was no doubt profoundly stupid. When, to her relief, her fingers finally closed around the manila file, she straightened abruptly and made for the exit with only a hurried wave in Katie’s direction.
*****
First, do no harm.
She prepared his tray with shaky hands. Only a matter of days ago, she had sat next to Lincoln and told him she hadn’t gone to medical school in order to convince the state he was healthy enough to kill. Now, pulling her stool over to sit next to Michael, she was also pretty certain she hadn’t given up over six years of her life just to inject a healthy man with pseudo medication, every day, for what may amount to five full years. And yet, here they were.
But who was she harming, really? Certainly not Michael…the saline would flow through his veins as harmlessly as water. Not Katie, or even The Pope--what did he care if Michael Scofield spent ten minutes of every day staring at the prison doctor? She was only harming herself of course, or at least risking harm, but the truth was, it was almost comforting to know that some things never changed. Because she wanted to do this. The idea of Michael not here, every day, was disturbingly bleak, and the knowledge that he disliked her dirtying of her hands only made her want to help him--help them--even more.
They didn’t talk as Sara prepared the syringe. Katie had been called into the sick bay and the C.O. had wandered off to chat with an orderly, and the knowledge that they were as alone as they were likely to get pressed urgently at the back of her mind. She wanted to say something. Each second that passed while she fiddled with the saline and stared down at the tray was one they’d never get back, and twice, she opened her mouth to speak, but each time, the words were lost somewhere near the back of her throat. She watched Michael flick a glance toward the empty hallway, then shift on his seat, and suddenly the gravity of what they were doing seemed to increase ten-fold.
They were at a juncture, and for the first time, Sara felt she had a choice. Michael was no longer acting in desperation. She was no longer being played. The moment she slid the needle under his skin today, their relationship would shift irrevocably from circumstantial to intentional. Michael had said it was real, and it felt real, in both its careful deliberation and the consequences that seemed to lurk just out of sight.
As though she’d spoken aloud, he looked up from the tray to her face. He didn‘t touch her, but she felt the shift of his attention with a jolt as physical as if he had. “You don’t have to do this,” he whispered.
She didn’t answer. She tapped the syringe, then reached for his hand. He didn’t pull back, but a single muscle along his bicep jumped then relaxed as she turned his wrist to expose the underside of his arm. Slowly, she trailed two fingers up his skin to find a vein, and when she felt it pulsing beneath the pad of her forefinger, she finally looked up. She kept her eyes steady on his as she slid the needle into his arm in one smooth motion.
*****
She half-expected to regret it. She had waited all the previous afternoon for the rush of remorse to overtake her, to burst like some sort of delayed bomb in her brain, detonated hours after it was due. Or maybe, she had mused, the guilt would manifest itself like aftershocks, catching her off-guard long after she felt the danger had passed. Either way, she imagined she would be otherwise occupied, standing perhaps at the fridge, or maybe at her door, her key in the lock, when reality hit and the bottom dropped out from under her. She waited for the catalyst that would finally cause the words--Oh God, what have I started?--to cross her lips, but even after leaving for home, even through dinner and a hurried catch-up on patient files, through several phone calls and late-night TV, it didn’t come.
She slept like a baby, and she didn‘t dream. In the morning, she awoke before her alarm, and in the blurry haze between consciousness and sleep, she experienced that vague stirring of good news…of something she was looking forward to but had momentarily forgotten during the night. It took her a beat to come up with it, and then…oh! Michael. She rolled over, pressing her face into her pillow as she smiled.
Day 10
24 hours after their first foray into deception, Michael told himself he was prepared for any emotion she threw his way. On the long walk to the infirmary, he braced himself for anger. Or worse, for regret. She’d had time for deliberation, after all, and he fully expected to find her with a well-honed argument or a tactful rejection.
He didn’t expect to find her already waiting for him in Exam 3. Unbelievably, she seemed shy. She greeted him somewhat awkwardly, mumbling something about needing to clean out a supply cupboard before his arrival, and he got the impression that despite the announcement of his presence by his C.O., he had somehow startled her. She attempted to regain her composure, smiling before offering him a seat with a wave of her hand and an odd little laugh, and Michael released a sigh of relief. Her actions were transparent enough to finally loosen the slow squeeze of anxiety that had gripped his heart since leaving this room the same time yesterday; Sara was a bit unsettled, but she certainly didn’t have the look of woman about to reject him.
He crossed to the exam table and sat, watching her until she seemed to gather herself, abandoning the disorderly rows of gauze and 4x4s unceremoniously before chancing a quick assessment of his face. He took the opportunity to return her earlier smile, eager to reassure her. “It’s fine,” he mouthed. “Are you ok?”
She nodded, but her eyes widened a bit, and he was desperate to say more, desperate to know precisely where she stood today, but the infirmary was crowded with a wave of new transfers needing physicals; almost a dozen inmates waited impatiently, spilling out into the hallway and talking and milling around just beyond the open door.
Sara crossed the room and pulled the privacy screen from its place in the corner, angling it slightly around Michael so that it blocked the view of the door. Perhaps, he thought with a slight shift of his head, she wasn’t feeling so shy after all.
“High traffic area today,” he noted carefully in a regular speaking voice.
“That’s why we have this, I guess.” Her inflection was casual, but he could hear the slight tremor of nerves behind it. He decided to take a chance.
“Is it?” he asked smoothly. “Too bad.”
She whipped her head around and rewarded him with a slightly breathless laugh. The sound seemed to shoot straight to his gut and then to…well…damn. The screen muted the light from the hallway as well as the noise, and as Sara stepped around it to sit beside him, reaching for her tray, she appeared somewhat filtered. Her hair spilled around her face and her lab coat softened to a light cream against her skin. The overhead lighting was strained through the screen like a sieve, casting them both in a shadow of such instantly created intimacy that Michael could scarcely breathe for fear of disturbing the delicate tableau.
Everything he planned to ask was swept away on a quick current of affection and desire. He shifted closer toward her, feeling wonderfully reckless as he reached for her, but once he was close enough to see the quickening of her pulse at the base of her neck, she suddenly appeared as delicate as bone china. She wasn‘t…he knew she wasn‘t…but he couldn‘t do this to her, not with an entire busload of convicts ten feet away.
“Sara,” he finally said simply, forcing his hands to rest back on the chilled sides of the table, and he wished she could know how incredibly badly he wanted to touch her. She was looking at him as though he might instantly disappear, and it was of some consolation to suspect that she did know, perhaps all too well. He formed her name again, and this time, his voice was so choked, he wondered if she had heard the two syllables at all. But she smiled back shakily, almost as though she were on the brink of tears herself, and then she was curling her fingers over his for the brief seconds it took to expose his vein and administer his shot.
“I know,” she breathed, and then their time was up.
Day 11
He was standing out in the yard at rec time when he saw her emerge from the side entrance. Beside him, Sucre was saying something about Maricruz and a visitation she had missed, but his words dissipated like a trail of vapor to the far recesses of Michael’s mind as he watched her walk toward her car. It must be the start of her lunch hour. He wandered in the direction of the fence, leaving Sucre to complain to someone else, all the while willing her to look over. Willing her to see him.
She did. Just as she skirted the fence, she looked over, and then immediately back down at her feet as her face blushed crimson. Damn. She did it to him again…a surge of pleasure was already traveling the length of his spine. She looked right back up, tucking a stray strand of hair back behind one ear as she veered from her course, cutting toward the fence.
“Hey.”
The day was warm; she had shed not only her lab coat but the light jacket he had become accustomed to seeing her wear as well. He took in her thin t-shirt, a soft green against her pale skin. For a moment, he considered discretion, then opted for the opposite course of action. He allowed his eyes to follow the jut of the V-neck where it traveled down then back up. She flushed anew, and he crossed his arms over his chest, trying very hard not to appear smug. “Hey,” he returned, rocking back slightly on his heels. “Green suits you, you know.”
She blinked, then cocked her head to one side, smiling. “Is that your idea of flirtation, Scofield? Because if so, I’ve heard better.”
He grinned back, raising both eyebrows to feign innocence. “Just calling it like I see it, Doc.” He deliberately lowered his eyes back to her neckline playfully, feeling his pulse quicken as she laughed, the sound a bit heady and decidedly more girlish than he suspected she intended.
“I’ll see you in an hour,” she managed, turning away.
He lowered his voice. “Yes, you will.”
She spun back with a fresh laugh that ended on an incredulous snort. This time, he was pretty sure her amusement was solely at his expense. “What sort of come-on is that supposed to be?”
“Sorry,” he answered quickly. Suddenly, his own face felt a bit hot. “I’m rusty. I’ll work on it.”
She smiled again. “I should think so.”
Day 14
He hadn’t seen her in two days, and he‘d never been so glad to see a Monday roll around. The weekend had crawled by, broken up only by a tense five minutes on Saturday afternoon during which he had been forced to wait in mounting stress as the weekend physician skimmed the note Sara had written in his chart before finally reaching into the exam room fridge to pull out his prepared syringe. Now, he shifted from foot to foot, waiting impatiently for her to come around the corner.
She was in a great mood. He knew it the second he laid eyes on her; she paused in the doorway to Exam 2 to throw some joke back over her shoulder to Katie, then entered the room with a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth that made her look about sixteen and made Michael instantly long to know exactly what she was thinking.
“Mr. Scofield,” she greeted as she crossed the room toward the cabinets.
“Doctor,” he returned casually. They were getting the hang of this. He watched as the C.O. outside the open door shuffled down the hallway in search of coffee, then swung his gaze back to Sara, letting his eyes linger unabashedly as she turned her back to him, reaching for the syringe and sterile sharp. She turned in time to catch him staring, and shot him a look that was perhaps one-fourth mild reproach and three-fourths blatant invitation, and the combination was so enticing Michael found himself literally squirming in his seat.
He was in a pretty damn good mood himself. He had met with Veronica just that morning, and according to her, Lincoln was scheduled to be transferred to Gen Pop some time today. “My brother is coming back to A Wing,” he told Sara conversationally as she pulled the stool up next to him.
She nodded, her eyes warm as they caught his own, and he couldn’t help feeling just a bit deflated. She already knew. He wasn’t surprised, but for whatever reason, he had been looking forward to being the one to break this news. He quickly tried to swallow his disappointment; he’d already served more than enough time in prison to become accustomed to the complete lack of control that permeated his life.
Her eyes flicked quickly across his face and back down to the prepared tray on its stand beside her. She read him like a book. “I wasn’t given any details,” she said. “Tell me what you know?”
The truth was, he didn’t have much more information himself, but as he relayed the few facts Veronica had given him, he found himself deeply touched by the gesture. He let her roll up his sleeve--it took longer that way--then snagged her gaze and held it as she slid the needle into his arm and injected him. He watched her bite her lower lip, her expression sobering somewhat, but her eyes were still lit with a subtle mischief when she stood, tossing the needle in the sharps receptacle. Directly behind her, the C.O. who had escorted Michael in wandered back down the hall and sat down heavily in a metal chair outside the door, steaming coffee cup in hand.
Sara saw him, too. Her shoulders stiffened just slightly, but when she turned back to Michael, her tone remained determinedly cheery over a barely discernable layer of anxiety. “I need a pulse,” she said, beckoning to him with both hands, her fingers flicking abruptly upward. He blinked, his mind racing in about twenty different directions before noticing the stethoscope in her hand and realizing she was asking. “Oh,” he said stupidly. “Up?” He tugged at the hem of his sweatshirt.
She seemed to consider. “Um, off? Actually?” His eyes widened slightly, and she looked away quickly, nearly smiling before overcompensating with an air of clipped professionalism. “If you don’t mind.”
He smirked. “I don’t mind.” In one smooth motion, he pulled the sweatshirt up and over his head.
“Thanks.”
“Whatever you need.”
She looked at him quickly, but must have decided to let the comment pass. Or, perhaps, he preferred to think, she had no comeback at her disposal. Either way, he was denied any further opportunity to gloat; her hand curved over his bare shoulder and as she leaned over him, listening to his heartbeat, and any other commentary was whisked from his brain. Her palm seemed to heat his flesh so effectively he wondered if it burned her skin as thoroughly as it burned his. At very least, she had be hearing a pulse that more closely mimicked a runner’s mid-marathon than the steady thump that was to be expected.
He was right. She paused, frowning slightly, then lifted the drum of the stethoscope and slid it into a slightly altered position. The tips of her fingers barely grazed his clavicle, and when she leaned forward again, the curtain of her hair fell forward, tickling his cheek. She pulled it back with her free hand with a shaky laugh. “I need you to relax,” she said.
He spoke into the curve of her neck as she leaned in to listen again, so close his lips nearly touched her collarbone. “In that case, I’ll need you to take at least three steps back,” he whispered, and he felt her still. “Or, you could cut whatever number you’re getting in about half, and call it good.”
She smiled, sliding the stethoscope back around her neck and rolling back away on the stool with a gentle push of one foot against the linoleum. “It doesn’t really matter. I left your chart in the hall anyway.”
He literally felt himself do a double-take. “Wait…you didn’t need to get my vital signs at all today?”
“No.”
“I see.” He paused, considering. “Um…thank you?”
Sara turned away, but not fast enough to hide the way the corners of her mouth twitched upward. “No,” she said breezily. “Thank you.”
He tried to laugh, but it came out closer to a choked cough. She looked back, curving one eyebrow up at him. “Ok?”
He forced a deep breath in and out. “You certainly are in a good mood today,” he observed dryly.
She tried to feign mild surprise, then dropped the pretense. Her face sobered. “Well, it occurred to me,” she began, “this news about Lincoln? It’s good for you, too.” She hesitated. “I imagine an ally in Gen Pop will be welcome.” She had crossed the room as she spoke, and now, stood back before him, her eyes intent on the lingering yellowed outlines of his bruises.
They hadn’t had opportunity to further discuss the issue of the ongoing abuse he suffered at the hands of the former P.I. crew, but he knew his ever-present smattering of wounds, both healing and fresh, had not escaped her attention. There wasn’t time to delve into it now, either, however, and he was forced to settle for a smile that he hoped was reassuring. “It will,” he agreed.
She nodded a bit briskly. “I’ll see him later today, you know.”
“Oh?”
“He needs a physical to be re-admitted to A Wing.” She cleared her throat, then paused, toying with the rubber tube of her stethoscope. He waited for her to say more, and when she didn’t, he had the distinct impression she was stalling.
“What is it?”
Still, she hesitated, then released a quick breath. “I just know you’re very close, you and Lincoln. I don’t want…I can’t be put in a position where my professionalism is compromised…in regard to him.”
He stared at her dumbly. “What?”
“Never mind.” She turned away, and he was about to press he further when he suddenly understood what she was asking.
“Wait.” He reached out to stop her, his hand skimming her hip. He jerked it back abruptly, then belatedly craned his head toward the door. No one. He laid it back against her, curving his fingers around her hipbone and drawing her back toward him. She let him.
“I would never speak to Lincoln about you.”
She remained very still. “Ok.” Her eyes flicked toward the clock on the wall and then abruptly back to his face. She took another deep breath. “This is all new territory for me Michael.”
“You don’t have to tell me that.”
She eyed the clock again. The minute hand was edging past the three. “I have to go.”
“I know.”
She turned, and he felt his fingers slip away from her pants. At the door, she turned, still worrying the stethoscope in her hands. “I wish…” She faltered, appearing to struggle for the words she wanted. “I mean…in another life? I’d want Lincoln to know.”
Day 16
She was smiling a lot lately. Also becoming routine? Her habit of watching the clock a bit incessantly throughout the mornings…10 am, then 11, and then 12. Today, she left the prison grounds for lunch, and when she returned, Katie was waiting for her in her office. That fact in and of itself was not unusual, but as Sara approached from the end of the hall, there was something about the tenseness of her posture that immediately put her on-edge. A sudden uprising of nerves shot through her stomach as she set her bag down carefully and turned to regard Katie cautiously. “Afternoon.”
Katie looked sober. “I’m sorry to hear about your father,” she offered.
“What about my father?”
Katie looked flustered. “It’s probably old news to you, but I only just saw,” she said hurriedly. “All this about the VP nomination?” She paused, probably because Sara was still staring at her blankly. “Oh, she amended softly. “You haven’t heard?”
“Katie?”
“Your father was offered and formally declined the VP nomination today. It was just on Channel 10.”
What was she talking about? She watched as Katie reached across her to the keyboard on her desk and pulled up MSN. A second later, her father’s face filled her monitor. She scanned the accompanying article, but even after reading the type, her mind was churning in a slow counter-current to the news like water swirling down a drain. Her dad was still in D.C. He would have called. He would have told her.
Shit. It was just as likely he wouldn’t. Katie was still talking, and she found herself answering numbly. “I didn’t even know he was up for consideration,” she said quietly.
“I’m sorry, Sara.” Katie was looking at her in genuine concern, and Sara forced a weak smile.
“I’m sure I’ll catch up with him about it soon.”
“Of course.” Katie was still looking at her cautiously, however. “You want me to take your one o’clock?”
Sara blinked. Her one o’clock. Her one o’clock. “No, that’s fine,” she blurted. “I’ve got it.” Katie looked a bit taken aback, and Sara somehow found the presence of mind to tamper her abrupt insistence with what she hoped passed as a grateful shrug of her shoulders. “I could use the distraction.”
*****
She was upset. He had no way of knowing why, and immediately, his imagination jumped wildly from one possible explanation to the next, until his stomach churned at the myriad of scenarios he had conjured. He thought he might be sick. The second they were alone, he didn‘t waste time mincing words. “What’s wrong?”
She shook her head. He swallowed…hard. With only a handful of minutes a day at their disposal, and even fewer in the relative privacy of the exam room, he would make no apology for being stingy with their time. “Sara,” he said more firmly. “What is wrong?”
She paused in her preparation of his shot, whether due to the insistent rise of his tone or in deliberation, he wasn’t sure. All the same, when she looked up at him, he caught a startled look in her eyes. “It’s not you,” she said hastily, as though the idea of him connecting her mood to their situation hadn‘t occurred to her. Perhaps it hadn‘t. She had just finished drawing up the syringe, and now she reached for his hand, squeezing his fingers very briefly in the way he had come to expect as she turned his hand over to inject his vein.
He was pretty sure he felt his heart constrict along with his fingers. “Are you sure?” He was relieved, but the urgency in his tone persisted. He did nothing to alter it. Outside the room, the C.O. was shifting on his seat, and above their heads, the clock was ticking. This was urgent.
She paused again, and then spoke just as the needle pricked his skin. “My father?” she began, and he would have smiled at the questioning inflection of her words had he not seen the way her jaw tensed as she said them. It wasn’t likely he needed reminding who her father was. She took a breath, drew the needle back out of his arm, and continued very matter-of-factly. “He was forced to decline the VP nomination today.”
Michael blinked. “Because of Lincoln?” His arm still lay against the cold metal tray, and he would have moved it to roll back down his sleeve, but her fingers were still flat atop his, and maybe, if he stayed very still, she’d leave them there a second or two longer.
She nodded. “Probably.”
Michael frowned. She was a bit of a closed book today, and while the obvious guess was to assume she resented Lincoln’s role in her father’s political stumble, he was inclined to think it may be something else entirely. He studied the pale curve of her throat where an heated flush was creeping up her neck as though he were attempting to read tea leaves, and when he could reveal nothing, he felt his frustration build. “I’m sorry,” he offered. “That must be a big disappointment.”
She looked surprised. “No,” she shrugged, reaching for a cotton ball from the jar to press to his arm, but at the barely discernable tremor to her voice, he glanced up from the white fluff against his skin to seek her eyes. “I only found out as it was announced, just now.”
His face must have literally fallen at this admission, because she frowned back at him, then rose to grab his chart from the wall. “I’m sorry, Sara,“ he said again, and this time, his own voice shook with emotion. Her distress made sense now. Upon her explanation, his mind replayed her injured appearance at the exam room door, and now knowing its cause, he felt his blood begin to boil. He was somewhat surprised at the degree of indignation he felt on her behalf. “That’s inexcusable.”
“It is what it is.”
She was looking back at him almost willfully, her eyes shining with a false bravado he suspected she didn’t even realize was there. He ached for her. He’d seen this look on her face before. At least once, he had been privy to it through the slats of the rec yard fence as he had assured her he wasn’t one to judge her on the merits of her father.
Maybe she saw the anger in his own eyes, or something else entirely that he hadn’t intended to reveal, because she took a step back both literally and figuratively. “I’ll be fine,” she said, and before she left the room, she offered him a smile that revealed a strength that took his breath away. A strength he knew a lesser woman would not have had to give.
*****
Sara caught her father on the phone later that afternoon, and didn‘t waste time on preliminaries. “I’m your daughter, and I’m the last to know you were up for the VP nomination? Do you know how insulting that is?”
His answer was so condescending, she flinched. “I hardly saw the point in bringing it up.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means, Sara, that the second I signed the clemency for that scumbag of yours, I knew I was throwing away the nomination.” He sighed heavily into the phone. “Of course, I hardly expect you to understand that.”
“Dad.”
“In fact, all I do expect from you is a little understanding, once in a while, of the public nature of my job. It would be great if every so often, you didn’t work so damn hard to counter every stand I take. Is that too much to ask?”
Sara bit her lip. She nearly…very nearly…flipped her cell phone shut, but instead, she took a breath and squared her shoulders. “I’ll do my best.”
Her father laughed bitterly. “An ambiguous response. Well played. God forbid you actually commit to something. Should have been a fucking lawyer.”
A moment later, he had hung up on her, and Sara sat heavily back down at her desk. He was going to pull her away from Fox River. It wouldn’t be the first time he manipulated her life purely out of spite, and now, the dread of it sat like a rock in the pit of her stomach. Suddenly the sheer weight of all these interlocking events left her weary. Michael had linked her to Lincoln who had linked her to this case that linked her to her father. She knew he would now lock this whole thing down tight, chaining her to the agenda he saw fit, holding her to her word. In exchange for Lincoln’s clemency, her father had bought Sara‘s obedience, and even while she railed against it, she knew he would insist on getting his money’s worth.