Coming Clean
Title: Coming Clean
Author: wrldpossibility
Characters: Sara Tancredi/Michael Scofield
Word Count: 150 (I tried for a true drabble, really I did.)
Rating: PG
Spoilers: None. Pure speculation.
Summary: She knows only what she has been told and what she can see with her own eyes, and even that is too much.
Author's Note: This is my contribution to the Snapshot Drabble challenge at pbhiatus_fic. It is set sometime in 4.01 and was inspired by WM's and SWC's recent (general) analysis of their respective characters and the toll the past months had likely taken on both of them. (This post will stay open for two days.)
She knows only what she has been told and what she can see with her own eyes, and even that is too much.
When they finally talk, his voice is raw and gravelly, as though he hadn’t used it for months, and he hadn’t of course, not on her. It picks up momentum with a warning rumble, slowly closing the gap between them with fatalistic precision until he’s speaking with such honesty that to her, it calls to mind the confrontational clink of ice rattling in a glass chased by the smooth comfort of vodka, and she flinches.
“And Gretchen?” she clarifies softly when he pauses, even while wishing she could abandon this task of peeling away layers, that she could put off this painful debridement of regret and concession. “The gun?”
“I’d given up on finding you alive,” he admits hoarsely as her hand curves over his jaw, but what he means--what she hears--is simply this: I'd given up on myself.
Author: wrldpossibility
Characters: Sara Tancredi/Michael Scofield
Word Count: 150 (I tried for a true drabble, really I did.)
Rating: PG
Spoilers: None. Pure speculation.
Summary: She knows only what she has been told and what she can see with her own eyes, and even that is too much.
Author's Note: This is my contribution to the Snapshot Drabble challenge at pbhiatus_fic. It is set sometime in 4.01 and was inspired by WM's and SWC's recent (general) analysis of their respective characters and the toll the past months had likely taken on both of them. (This post will stay open for two days.)
She knows only what she has been told and what she can see with her own eyes, and even that is too much.
When they finally talk, his voice is raw and gravelly, as though he hadn’t used it for months, and he hadn’t of course, not on her. It picks up momentum with a warning rumble, slowly closing the gap between them with fatalistic precision until he’s speaking with such honesty that to her, it calls to mind the confrontational clink of ice rattling in a glass chased by the smooth comfort of vodka, and she flinches.
“And Gretchen?” she clarifies softly when he pauses, even while wishing she could abandon this task of peeling away layers, that she could put off this painful debridement of regret and concession. “The gun?”
“I’d given up on finding you alive,” he admits hoarsely as her hand curves over his jaw, but what he means--what she hears--is simply this: I'd given up on myself.