Revival
Title: Revival
Author: wrldpossibility
Fandom: Prison Break
Characters: Michael/Sara
Word Count: approx. 1120
Spoilers: Only for my own universe
Rating: very mild NC-17
Summary: He was used to the nightmares, but this was something different.
A/N: This is a one-shot set in the What Hurts the Most universe. It takes place sometime right after that fic left off, with Michael and Sara at their rental in Baja. Unfortunately, it doesn’t quite stand alone. It helps to be familiar with the events in WHTM, but if you’re not, the extreme cliffnotes version is that Sara did come very, very close to losing her head, and that Michael found her, alive shortly thereafter. For the Let’s Get It On challenge at pbhiatus_fic.
He was used to the nightmares, but this was something different.
She was awake, for one thing. She was awake, and as of five seconds ago, they were lying side-by-side, entangled on the narrow bed of the rental house, and she was smiling into the inky expanse of his chest as he kissed her. It was late, although the hour really didn‘t matter much when they could sleep the next morning as long as they liked, and Michael had one lean leg nestled between hers, teasing…toying…as he planted kisses to the back of her ear and then along her hairline from her forehead to her temple. He could feel her stomach muscles tense as she tried not to laugh, and his hands trailed up from the bare curve of her hips and then higher, seeking the spot he had learned--so recently learned--would reduce her to a squirming fit of laughter if his fingers alighted upon her skin with just the right touch. He found it, and she curled into him, her laugh vibrating against his shoulder as he pulled her into his arms. Her mirth was intoxicating, and he rolled her onto her back, feeling deliciously mischievous. Devilish. She was looking at him with a glint in her eyes that made him feel reckless, too, and he kissed her increasingly thoroughly, his mouth opening to hers with an insistence that was rapidly sobering them both, and as she arched upward against him with a soft sound somewhere between a sigh and moan, he knew what he was doing to her. He loved what he was doing to her, and he reached up, caressing her cheek with his hand before pressing one thumb under her jaw to tip her head upward. He heard the sharp catch in her throat first, and then, just as his hand slid to span the exposed column of her neck, she reared backward, a single, short cry escaping her lips as she pushed him away, kicking violently at the bedcovers to free herself from them. From him.
Her hands went straight to her neck, and then he was throwing his own head back in abject dismay as comprehension dawned. He scrambled back automatically, giving her the space she was seeking as a quick rush of self-revulsion flooded his brain. She was looking at him with an expression of raw terror he hadn‘t seen on her face since that single instant, weeks ago now, that he had stood below her in the ruins of the church, reaching out to her. But that had been different. Then, she hadn’t known who he was. Then, she hadn’t been underneath him on a bed, thoroughly exposed and overpowered.
He reached out for her now, too--how could he not?--and she bolted back anew; he flinched as he heard the back of her head hit the wall beside the bed in the dark. “Sara!” he implored, and then instantly lowered his voice. “Sara.”
He could hear her drawing ragged gulps of air into her lungs. “I’m sorry,” she choked, grabbing her shirt in her fist before sliding off the bed toward the door. He watched her go before he was forced to squeeze his eyes tightly shut or risk losing what little composure he had left.
*****
She was sitting outside on the sandy wooden steps leading to the beach, her back to the door, her knees drawn to her chest, and he called to her softly before taking even a single step toward her.
She turned her head, offering him a small, apologetic smile that ripped a new path of remorse straight through his gut, and then he was sinking down beside her onto the porch. It was lighter out here than inside; with no artificial lights marring the horizon, the stars and the half-moon illuminated both the sand before them and Sara’s face, wan but faintly radiating a stoic determination that he found didn‘t surprise him in the least.
“I’m the one who’s sorry,” he corrected her belatedly, and she shook her head, the dark crown of her head flashing copper in the moonlight.
“I just…” she began, and then paused, frowning. “It caught me off-guard.”
Michael swallowed hard, drawing the cool air in through his nose in a pinched rush. “Sara, it was appallingly unthinking of me to--”
“No.” She reached for his hand, her fingers trailing over his forearm before sliding into his palm. “I’m not fragile. Michael. I’m not so easily broken as that.”
He took his cue from her, keeping his voice carefully light as he curled his fingers around her hand. “I’ve noticed that about you.”
Still, she must have detected the echo of sorrow in his tone. “You did nothing wrong,” she said firmly.
“I resurrected a horrible memory.”
She stared out at the black ocean for a beat, then took a bracing breath. “The thing about resurrections, Michael? They imply a second chance.” He was about to ask her what she meant when she guided their clasped hands from his knee back up her body. His fingers skimmed her side and her shoulder, but there he stopped stubbornly, frowning at her quizzically in the dark.
She tilted her head back to kiss him, and this time, as his eyes closed, he allowed her to draw his hand higher. His fingers once again traced the curve of her jaw, and then slowly, he cupped the back of her neck as her own hand fell away, the very tips of his fingers spanning her throat. He felt her still, her pulse pounding rapidly as her entire body tensed, but her lips parted against his, and her mouth was warm and soft and supple. He kissed her deeply, allowing his hand to gently stroke the smooth skin from her ear to her collarbone, the single, razor-thin cut traversing her neck fading in significance with every pass of his fingers, and gradually, he felt her relax.
He felt her respond to his touch with the same intrinsic pull of desire he recognized from Fox River, that he knew from stolen moments on the run and hushed phone calls in his ear; that he had relished during their rushed, panicked minutes in Sona and their long hours hiding in the heart of Panama.
He made love to her on the bare stretch of sand behind the house, and with every stroke into her body, he knew he was replenishing her, and with every meeting of their flesh, she was redefining for him what it meant to carry on.
Author: wrldpossibility
Fandom: Prison Break
Characters: Michael/Sara
Word Count: approx. 1120
Spoilers: Only for my own universe
Rating: very mild NC-17
Summary: He was used to the nightmares, but this was something different.
A/N: This is a one-shot set in the What Hurts the Most universe. It takes place sometime right after that fic left off, with Michael and Sara at their rental in Baja. Unfortunately, it doesn’t quite stand alone. It helps to be familiar with the events in WHTM, but if you’re not, the extreme cliffnotes version is that Sara did come very, very close to losing her head, and that Michael found her, alive shortly thereafter. For the Let’s Get It On challenge at pbhiatus_fic.
He was used to the nightmares, but this was something different.
She was awake, for one thing. She was awake, and as of five seconds ago, they were lying side-by-side, entangled on the narrow bed of the rental house, and she was smiling into the inky expanse of his chest as he kissed her. It was late, although the hour really didn‘t matter much when they could sleep the next morning as long as they liked, and Michael had one lean leg nestled between hers, teasing…toying…as he planted kisses to the back of her ear and then along her hairline from her forehead to her temple. He could feel her stomach muscles tense as she tried not to laugh, and his hands trailed up from the bare curve of her hips and then higher, seeking the spot he had learned--so recently learned--would reduce her to a squirming fit of laughter if his fingers alighted upon her skin with just the right touch. He found it, and she curled into him, her laugh vibrating against his shoulder as he pulled her into his arms. Her mirth was intoxicating, and he rolled her onto her back, feeling deliciously mischievous. Devilish. She was looking at him with a glint in her eyes that made him feel reckless, too, and he kissed her increasingly thoroughly, his mouth opening to hers with an insistence that was rapidly sobering them both, and as she arched upward against him with a soft sound somewhere between a sigh and moan, he knew what he was doing to her. He loved what he was doing to her, and he reached up, caressing her cheek with his hand before pressing one thumb under her jaw to tip her head upward. He heard the sharp catch in her throat first, and then, just as his hand slid to span the exposed column of her neck, she reared backward, a single, short cry escaping her lips as she pushed him away, kicking violently at the bedcovers to free herself from them. From him.
Her hands went straight to her neck, and then he was throwing his own head back in abject dismay as comprehension dawned. He scrambled back automatically, giving her the space she was seeking as a quick rush of self-revulsion flooded his brain. She was looking at him with an expression of raw terror he hadn‘t seen on her face since that single instant, weeks ago now, that he had stood below her in the ruins of the church, reaching out to her. But that had been different. Then, she hadn’t known who he was. Then, she hadn’t been underneath him on a bed, thoroughly exposed and overpowered.
He reached out for her now, too--how could he not?--and she bolted back anew; he flinched as he heard the back of her head hit the wall beside the bed in the dark. “Sara!” he implored, and then instantly lowered his voice. “Sara.”
He could hear her drawing ragged gulps of air into her lungs. “I’m sorry,” she choked, grabbing her shirt in her fist before sliding off the bed toward the door. He watched her go before he was forced to squeeze his eyes tightly shut or risk losing what little composure he had left.
*****
She was sitting outside on the sandy wooden steps leading to the beach, her back to the door, her knees drawn to her chest, and he called to her softly before taking even a single step toward her.
She turned her head, offering him a small, apologetic smile that ripped a new path of remorse straight through his gut, and then he was sinking down beside her onto the porch. It was lighter out here than inside; with no artificial lights marring the horizon, the stars and the half-moon illuminated both the sand before them and Sara’s face, wan but faintly radiating a stoic determination that he found didn‘t surprise him in the least.
“I’m the one who’s sorry,” he corrected her belatedly, and she shook her head, the dark crown of her head flashing copper in the moonlight.
“I just…” she began, and then paused, frowning. “It caught me off-guard.”
Michael swallowed hard, drawing the cool air in through his nose in a pinched rush. “Sara, it was appallingly unthinking of me to--”
“No.” She reached for his hand, her fingers trailing over his forearm before sliding into his palm. “I’m not fragile. Michael. I’m not so easily broken as that.”
He took his cue from her, keeping his voice carefully light as he curled his fingers around her hand. “I’ve noticed that about you.”
Still, she must have detected the echo of sorrow in his tone. “You did nothing wrong,” she said firmly.
“I resurrected a horrible memory.”
She stared out at the black ocean for a beat, then took a bracing breath. “The thing about resurrections, Michael? They imply a second chance.” He was about to ask her what she meant when she guided their clasped hands from his knee back up her body. His fingers skimmed her side and her shoulder, but there he stopped stubbornly, frowning at her quizzically in the dark.
She tilted her head back to kiss him, and this time, as his eyes closed, he allowed her to draw his hand higher. His fingers once again traced the curve of her jaw, and then slowly, he cupped the back of her neck as her own hand fell away, the very tips of his fingers spanning her throat. He felt her still, her pulse pounding rapidly as her entire body tensed, but her lips parted against his, and her mouth was warm and soft and supple. He kissed her deeply, allowing his hand to gently stroke the smooth skin from her ear to her collarbone, the single, razor-thin cut traversing her neck fading in significance with every pass of his fingers, and gradually, he felt her relax.
He felt her respond to his touch with the same intrinsic pull of desire he recognized from Fox River, that he knew from stolen moments on the run and hushed phone calls in his ear; that he had relished during their rushed, panicked minutes in Sona and their long hours hiding in the heart of Panama.
He made love to her on the bare stretch of sand behind the house, and with every stroke into her body, he knew he was replenishing her, and with every meeting of their flesh, she was redefining for him what it meant to carry on.