The Right Road - Chapter Five
Title: The Right Road (5/?)
Fandom: Prison Break
Pairing: Michael Scofield/Sara Tancredi
Characters: Michael Scofield, Sara Tancredi, Lincoln Burrows, Veronica Donovan, Frank Tancredi, various original characters
Rating: PG-15 (but leaning towards S for Saucy in some places), a small dash of UST
Genre: AU, Non-Epilogue-Compliant, Alternate Reality
Length: 4,514 words
Summary: One single decision can sometimes change the world. Lincoln didn't go into that garage, and he didn't end up on Death Row. Michael didn't rob that bank, and he never stepped foot inside Fox River. Sara never fell in love with an inmate, and she locked the infirmary door every single night. If everything was different, would anything stay the same?
Author's Note:This story has evolved from an old plotbunny involving a chance meeting in the most ordinary of places, and was inspired by THESE WORDS OF WISDOM from some guy called Wentworth Miller. I realise this is the longest wedding reception ever, and I'm very grateful to anyone who is still reading, lol!
~*~
Just when she thinks she’s managed to gracefully move on from the awkwardness of basically inviting herself to tag along on Michael Scofield’s next visit to his local youth shelter, he smiles at her in a way that has her realising her usual poise is still very much AWOL. “What do you say we dance instead?”
She smiles back, trying to ignore the ignoble leaping of her pulse. “Funny, I got the impression that you weren’t a fan of dancing at weddings.”
“Well, there are many different kinds of dancing.” He grins as he waves a hand towards the DJ, who has just started planning a slow number. “This I can do without stepping on any toes.” Sliding off the bar stool, he holds out his hand to her in a gesture that is unexpected as it is oddly familiar.
“Would those toes be literal or metaphorical?” Her feet hit the carpet at the same time her hand slides into his, but the only thing she feels is the warmth of his palm against hers.
His grin widens as he darts a pointed glance in her father’s general direction. “I guess we’ll find out.”
“Let me just put my purse and wrap on my seat,” she says hastily, thinking she’ll feel awkward enough without trying to juggle her belongings. To her relief, her father is holding court at another table, having obviously discovered more people he knows, and she is saved another round of explanations.
She had felt Michael’s gaze on her back with every step she had taken away from him, and his smile of anticipation as she rejoins him makes her knees feel strangely unsteady. As they step into the throng of dancing guests, she concentrates on keeping her new shoes from sliding on the parquetry floor, then he stops and turns to her with a self-conscious smile that sends a pang of longing skittering through her, and she forgets all about her shoes.
It may have been a while since she’d danced with her father, but it’s been even longer since she danced with a date. Real dancing, the kind where hands are clasped and arms slide across backs, the kind where you’re close enough to feel the warmth of someone’s skin and smell the clean, fresh scent of their aftershave. Sliding her hand up his arm to rest it on his shoulder, she feels his bicep clench beneath her touch, and a flutter of awareness curls low in her belly. Damn.
“Let me know how those toes hold up, won’t you?” He flashes her quick grin, then they start to move. Despite his earlier protestations, he dances quite well, his whole body imbued with a graceful rhythm that no amount of instruction could impart. His thigh brushes against hers with every third step, his lapels of his jacket brushes against her breasts often enough to make her catch her breath each time. As the music floats around them, she lifts her chin, letting her gaze meet his. Thanks to her heels, her mouth is little more than a whisper away from his. All it would take would be the slightest movement and -
“So, Fox River,” he says lightly, bringing her back to earth with a dull thump. “If it’s not your ideal job, what is?”
Okay. They’re going to make small talk while dancing. That’s fine. She can do that, no problem.
“I’m not sure.” She smiles at the bride’s sister over Michael’s shoulder, ignoring the comic widening of the other woman’s eyes as she registers Sara’s dance partner. “Is anyone sure?”
“I know I’m not,” he admits, the hand splayed low on her back shifting just enough to make her skin jump with anticipation. “The type of work you did in India, is that something you’d like to explore again?”
“Maybe.” She hides a smile, recognising the searching tone in his voice all too well, and wonders how many times he’s asked himself the same questions as he sat at his desk in his office in an impressively built skyscraper downtown. Katie likes to tell her that opposites attract, but there’s a lot to be said for meeting someone on the same wavelength. “The problem with that kind of work is that while it’s incredibly rewarding, it means being away from your family and friends.” She thinks of her father meeting her at the airport when she’d arrived home from Kolkata, sweeping her up in a crushing hug even as he was frowning at her choice of footwear and tattered luggage. “It takes the life/work balance issue to a whole new level, so that can be a problem.” She smiles at him. “What about you?”
“Well, my brother would tell you I already have that problem.” His gaze sweeps unhurriedly over her face, lingering on her mouth. “He thinks I spend too much time stuck behind a desk and not enough in the real world.”
Giving into the kind of temptation she’s sorely missed in the last few years, she lets the slow smile curve her mouth a little more, and the answering spark of heat in his bright gaze almost has her missing a step. Careful what you wish for, she thinks dazedly. “Is he right?”
He lifts one shoulder in a half-shrug, the movement somehow blending perfectly into the same languid, rolling rhythm of their dancing. “I’m starting to think he might be.” He smiles as his gaze snags hers, holding it long enough to make her mouth go dry. “Don’t tell him I said that, though.”
“Your secret is safe with me.” She has time to think that he’s talking as though her meeting his brother is a foregone conclusion, then the music slides into a much faster tempo as a new song begins. Couples around them begin to twist and move to the beat, but Michael is looking at her intently, his hand still holding hers, his arm still curled around her waist. He’s close enough for her to see that his eyes aren’t green or blue but an intriguing blend of both colours; close enough for the heat of his body to imprint lightly on her skin, making her feel restless and impatient for something she can’t name.
He takes a deep breath, his gaze still locked with hers. “Listen, Sara-”
“Maybe we should sit this next one out?“ The words are out of her mouth almost before she knows it, but the sound of her name on his lips and the way he’s looking at her are too much. Too much for the middle of a crowded dance floor, that’s for certain.
Whether he’s disappointed or relieved, she can’t quite tell. Either way, his hand doesn’t move from the small of her back.
“Good idea.”
She swallows hard. Perhaps, she thinks belatedly, it would have been smarter to go the safety in numbers route. He lets her lead the way off the dance floor, but she feels the brush of his hand on her back as they move through the dancing guests, and each contact seems to send a tiny current of electricity skittering down her spine. She hasn’t had an alcoholic drink or a single gram of an illicit substance for over four years, but she feels as though she’s got half a bottle of vodka or a really great hit of hospital grade morphine under her belt.
She’s not sure if she should be happy or terrified.
Perhaps she’ll settle for a mixture of both.
They end up at his table - half the guests are dancing, the other half apparently outside for a cigarette break - which seems the better choice out of the two tables. As much as they joked earlier about her introducing Michael to her father, she’s more than happy to avoid that moment until it’s completely unavoidable. Not the kind of mindset her sponsor would recommend, she thinks wryly.
She watches as he shrugs out of his suit jacket and drapes it over the back of his chair - he’s got swimmer’s shoulders, a little voice murmurs inside her head - then crosses her legs and tries to look as though she makes conversation with strange men at weddings on a regular basis. “Tell me about your brother,” she asks as Michael signals to a passing drinks waiter. “Are you close?” She’s not sure why she asks about his brother, but it seems a safe enough topic, the perfect distraction from the butterflies running rampant through her belly.
He liberates another glass of punch for her and a soda for himself, then turns to her with a chuckle. “Mostly.” At her raised eyebrow, he leans back in his chair, long fingers toying with the dessert cutlery on the table. “It’s a long and complicated and probably very boring story.”
She makes a show of checking her watch. “I’d say we’ve got at least another two hours before the bride and groom make their escape, so honestly, I’m all ears,” she tells him, a warm glow heating her face at his answering smile.
“You’re a brave woman, Sara Tancredi,” he murmurs, then reaches for his glass of soda. “Well, first things first, I guess. Our mom died when I was seven. Lincoln was twelve.”
His voice is matter-of-fact, but she hears the loss that echoes beneath the words. She thinks of his bleak expression when the best man had been waxing lyrical about family in his speech earlier that evening, and another flash of recognition clicks into place inside her. Did her own face wear that same sombre expression whenever people around her talked about their mothers? “And how did your dad cope with two young boys?”
His eyes darken, and she instantly knows she’s trodden on tender ground. “My father left before I was born.”
She can’t remember the last time she wished so hard that she could take back her words. “God, I’m sorry, I -”
He reaches across the snowy white linen table, brushing his fingertips gently over the back of her hand. “Please don’t apologise.” His hand lingers over hers for a few seconds, then falls away. “It was a long time ago. I only mentioned it because it’s kind of hard to explain me and Linc without it.” He hesitates, then gives her a painfully apologetic smile. “Seriously, you don’t want to spend the night of your friend’s wedding listening to this.”
“Actually, I do.” She reaches for her own drink, suddenly feeling as though she’s been caught up in some kind of surreal dream. Is she really sitting here, discussing personal emotional history with a man she barely knows? She takes a sip of cold fruit punch, and decides she’s had worse dreams than this. “The two of you were so young - what happened?”
She already suspects the answer, and isn’t surprised when he makes a quick grimace. “Well, we didn’t have any other relatives who could take us in, so we went into the system.” His gaze is steady and clear. “We were together at first, so it wasn’t too bad, but then Linc started getting into trouble around the neighbourhood.”
In that instant, she knows exactly why he works at the youth shelters. “Juvie?”
He nods. “In and out until he turned eighteen.” Lifting his head, he looks over her shoulder, and his face instantly changes, openness shifting into a much more guarded expression, his words a playful yet detached drawl. “Hey. Nice moves out there.”
She turns to find a couple standing behind her, and recognises them as two of Michael’s tablemates. “Oh, I’m sorry, I’ve taken your seat,” she begins immediately, but the male half of the couple waves away her apology.
“It’s not a problem,” he announces cheerfully. “We’re going to hang out at the bar a while, I think.” He looks expectantly at Michael, who instantly rises to the occasion, his tone still that oddly detached drawl.
“Sara, this is John and Nicole. John and I are on the same team at work.” He puts his hand on the back of Sara’s chair, his thumb grazing her bare shoulder blade. It’s a faintly possessive gesture that should irritate her. It doesn’t. “Guys, this is Sara.” He pauses, glances at her quickly, then looks back at his colleagues. “She went to school with the bride.”
Smiling at Michael’s less-is-more introductions, she wriggles her fingers in a tiny wave. “Nice to meet you.”
John grins at her. “You too.” He looks at Michael as he slides his hand around his date’s waist, then back at Sara. “You’re in safe hands there, trust me.”
As the other couple make their way to the bar, she glances at Michael in time to see the dark red flush that creeps across his face. “Private joke?”
“Uh, not exactly.” He looks discomforted in a way she hasn’t yet seen this evening, then offers her a sheepish smile. “In case you hadn’t already figured it out, I’m more of a ‘stay at home’ kind of guy. Hitting on beautiful women at weddings isn’t exactly my forte.”
She doesn’t try to stop the soft laughter that fizzes up from somewhere deep in her chest. “I would never have guessed,” she tells him lightly, his seemingly casual ‘beautiful woman’ comment leaving her own face warm with embarrassment. “For what it’s worth, you’re doing just fine.”
His tanned face is still tinged with colour, but his smile instantly becomes much more confident. “In that case, I think it’s your turn to over-share, don’t you?”
~*~
“In that case, I think it’s your turn to over-share, don’t you?” Whatever has taken over his brain and his tongue this evening, he’s not completely sure, but he really hopes it sticks around until he can get Sara Tancredi’s phone number. His own thought process seemed to take a vacation as soon as he took her in his arms on the dance floor. His whole body is still tingling pleasantly from the memory.
The woman in question hides a smile behind her glass of fruit punch as she takes a sip, but he sees the giveaway tilt of her wide mouth. “I’m a pretty boring person, to be honest.”
He studies her for a moment, torn between saying a dozen different things, and in the end decides on the safest answer. “I find that extremely hard to believe.”
She places her drink on the table and gazes at it intently, her thumb rubbing the condensation from the outside of the glass. “Well, there’s interesting, and then there’s the type of over-sharing guaranteed to kill any social conversation stone cold dead.”
She says it lightly, without the slightest hint of challenge, but he hears the challenge in her words nevertheless. “Try me.” He flashes her what he hopes is his most reassuring smile. “I can listen to engineers and accountants argue for hours at a time. Believe me, I can do conversation killers.”
She blows out a soft breath, shakes her head as though she can’t believe what she’s about to do, then taps one finger on the rim of her glass. “I’m not drinking tonight because I’ve been in recovery for the last four years.”
Michael stares at her. Whatever he was expecting her to say, it definitely hadn’t been that. He thinks of her weary smile in response to his designated driver comment, and suddenly a whole new vista opens up before him. He would never have thought that this woman would ever find herself wrestling with addiction, but if life with his brother has taught him anything, it’s not to judge a book by its proverbial cover. “In that case,” he tells her, meeting her gaze steadily, “I’m very happy that the fruit punch is first rate.”
Ducking her head, she chuckles softly as she wraps both hands around her glass. “So much for dramatic impact,” she quips.
He gives into the temptation to touch her hand briefly with his, enjoying the silken feel of her skin beneath his even as he wonders if he would be so accepting of such a disclosure if it came from any other woman; Veronica’s friend Allison, for instance. “That’s a huge deal, Sara. Four years sober is a real achievement, am I right?”
“So my sponsor tells me,” she murmurs. She looks more than a little embarrassed, but he can tell - he hopes he can, anyway - that his reaction has pleased her. “Anyway, that’s my over-sharing moment,” she says, nervous laughter shaking her voice, “and God, I cannot believe I told you.”
“How long does it normally take you to tell a date that you’re in recovery?” Crap. His tongue suddenly feels too big for his mouth, his brain no longer engaged with his words. “Not that this is a date in any way, shape or form, of course,” he adds quickly, repressing the childish urge to cross his fingers under the table.
“I don’t know.” Her gaze locks with his, and he feels the impact of it like a siren’s song. “In the last four years, I haven’t dated anyone long enough to want to tell them.”
The words hang in the air between then as they gaze at each other, the sound of the wedding guests’ conversation and music seeming to fade into nothing more than a muted backdrop. He wants to tell himself what he’s feeling right now is infatuation based on a very persuasive physical attraction, but he’s not sure he can manage that big a lie.
After what feels like an eternity, she purses her lips and exhales a long, soft breath. “Just so we’re clear, this kind of thing isn’t exactly my area of expertise either,” she tells him, her voice tinged with the same quiet sense of disbelief he can feel clawing at his gut.
“You’re doing just fine.”
She smiles at his use of her earlier words, her dark eyes dancing with a warmth that lights up her whole face, and he presses his hands flat on the table. He wants to kiss her, very much. He wants to feel the soft yield of her lips against his, the sigh of her breath against his tongue as she kisses him back. He thinks of how her body had grazed his on the dance floor, and a slow, thick arousal begins to burn in his blood.
To his eternal disappointment, the unmistakable sound of the MC’s voice breaks into the bubble of intimacy surrounding them, calling their attention back to the wedding proceedings. “My dad will be wondering where I am,” she says, an odd flatness creeping into her voice. “I should head back to my table, I guess.”
“There’s still the dessert table to negotiate,” he shoots back casually. “Maybe I could meet you there?”
Lifting her head, she gives him a smile that makes him feel as though he’s just won a reprieve from a life sentence. “It’s a date.”
She rises to her feet, and he hastily follows suit, tying to ease her chair out from the table before the gesture becomes pointless. When she turns to him, her lips parted as if to speak, he’s standing close enough that her hip brushes against his, and every drop of blood in his body seems to rush straight to his groin. She freezes, one hand fluttering an inch away from his chest, right above his heart, as if she suddenly feels off-balance and needs a ballast. She tilts back her head, her face raising to his as though she’s waiting for him to move closer, waiting for -
“God, get a room, Scofield,” John quips quietly in his ear with obvious amusement as he and his date file past behind him, and Michael can literally feel his face turn red.
“Sorry,” he mutters, not quite meeting Sara’s eyes, because he knows she heard John’s teasing remark, and because they’re standing in the grand ballroom of the Ritz Carlton Hotel and it would actually be incredibly easy for them to take up John’s suggestion. His whole body suffuses with heat at the thought, a sensation that dramatically increases when he sees the same realisation dawning in Sara’s eyes. “Look, Sara, would you like to grab a cup of coffee with me?”
She takes a half-step backwards, but his body is still humming like a tuning fork that’s been bashed against a granite slab. “I’d like that.” She darts a quick glance in the direction of her own table, then looks back at him. “When did you have in mind?”
“Now?”
She looks confused, and he can’t say he blames her. “Now?”
“Afterwards, I mean.” God, he’s babbling now, but with good reason. How do you tell someone you’ve just met that you can’t bear to say goodnight to them? “There’s an all-night place a few blocks from here.”
She gives him a measured look, as though trying to see behind his cheery invitation to some darker motives. He really hopes she doesn’t manage to achieve her goal, because given his thoughts right now, she might just slap his face and march off into the crowd, never to be see again. “Right.”
Crash and burn, he thinks despairingly. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have asked.”
“Actually, now that you mention it, the coffee at wedding receptions is usually pretty average.” She’s talking quickly now, her voice almost breathless, but all he cares about is that she’s accepting his invitation. “I wouldn’t mind a decent cup of coffee to wash down the dessert buffet.”
They both know it’s highly unlikely the coffee at this venue would be anything less than outstanding, but he’s more than happy to go along with her theory. He nods, taking his own half-step backward before he does something foolhardy like telling her she’s singlehandedly made this the best wedding he’s ever attended. “Better to be safe than sorry,” he agrees, and is pleased when she can’t quite disguise her eye-roll at his choice of cliché, because he’s not interested in someone who laughs mindlessly at his lame jokes. “See you after dessert, then?”
She smoothes her hands down the skirt of her dress, and it takes all his willpower not to follow the movement of her hands as they press the gauzy fabric against the curve of her thighs. She glances upward, her eyes meeting his, a silent question thrumming back and forth between them, a living, corporeal thing. “Uh, yes,” she finally says, her tone still faintly thready. “Coffee would be great.” She glances quickly over her shoulder, then turns back to him, her expression suddenly one of quiet resolve. “While everyone’s still all over the place, why don’t I introduce you to my dad?”
He follows the line of her gaze to where her father is slowly making his way back to his table, stopping briefly to greet other guests every few steps. His stomach lurches, alerting him to the fact that while he’s perfectly happy to joke about meeting Frank Tancredi, he’s not entirely comfortable with the reality. It’s something Sara obviously wants to get out of the way, though, and he’s happy to follow her lead. “Sure.”
She nods, her smile almost shy, the quick reassuring pressure of her hand on his elbow as welcome as it is unexpected. When they reach Frank Trancredi a moment later, he’s standing a few feet away from his table, wrapping up a smiling conversation with an elderly female guest. Michael has to admire the other man’s sense of timing. Obviously seeing his daughter approaching, he says a few final words to his companion, whose face is wreathed in smiles as she leaves his side.
“Hi sweetheart,” he tells his daughter cheerfully, but Michael sees the straitening of his shoulders and back, the way he pulls himself up to his full height as he turns to greet them both properly. “This your old friend?”
Old friend? Michael blinks, then holds out his hand before Sara can answer. “Michael Scofield. It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir.”
“Frank Tancredi.” The other man’s handshake is, as expected, firm enough to make Michael wince if he hadn’t braced himself for it. ”Glad to meet you, Michael.” He looks sideways at Sara, whose smile suddenly seems strained around the edges. Michael realises he’s obviously dealing with an overly protective father here, but he’s dealt with far more intimidating people than this man. “I was beginning to think my daughter was determined to keep you as her little secret.”
Then again, maybe not.
“Well, you know weddings, sir,” he says politely, understanding now why Sara had been determined to get this conversation over and done with. He can’t imagine she enjoys being treated like a recalcitrant teenager. “There are always so many things happening, it’s hard to meet everyone.”
“True, true.” Frank Tancredi studies him for a moment, his pale gaze disconcertingly shrewd, and Michael feels the ridiculous urge to wipe his damp palms on the seat of his trousers. Before he can say anything else, he feels the touch of Sara’s hand on his elbow once more.
“Michael and I are going out for coffee after the reception so we can catch up properly,” she informs her father with a smile. “I’ll be fine making my own way home, I promise.”
Michael does his best to hide his admiring smile. It doesn’t take a genius to see that this particular father-daughter relationship is a complicated one. Sara’s manner towards her father is warm, almost conciliatory, but she clearly isn’t asking his permission.
Frank Tancredi’s eyes widen slightly, then one corner of his mouth lifts in the beginnings of a wry smile. “You know, sweetheart, when you lay down the law like that, you remind me very much of your mother.”
Michael suddenly feels like an eavesdropper, but Sara saves him from further embarrassment by touching his shoulder gently. The fact that her father is standing right there should prevent him from feeling as though the light touch has sent a spark of heat through his thin shirt to his skin, but it doesn’t. “See you after the bouquet toss, Mr Scofield.”
He grins at her, then nods at her father. “Good to meet you, sir. I hope you enjoy the rest of the evening.”
“Likewise.” Wearing a practised smile, the older man looks at his daughter, then Michael, then at his daughter again. “You’ll have to come over for dinner sometime.”
Beside him, Sara makes a choked sound, then she slides her arm through the crook of her father’s elbow. “I’m sure Michael would like to get back to his friends now, Dad,” she murmurs, looking very much as though she is trying not to dissolve into laughter. Remembering her infectious reaction to his destruction of his napkin origami earlier that evening, he can’t deny he’s a little disappointed.
He makes his way back to his own table, his right hand still feeling the sting of Frank Tancredi’s bruising handshake. As he finds his seat and makes polite small talk with his colleagues and their dates, though, it’s the memory of Sara’s hand hovering over his heart that lingers.
~*~
Fandom: Prison Break
Pairing: Michael Scofield/Sara Tancredi
Characters: Michael Scofield, Sara Tancredi, Lincoln Burrows, Veronica Donovan, Frank Tancredi, various original characters
Rating: PG-15 (but leaning towards S for Saucy in some places), a small dash of UST
Genre: AU, Non-Epilogue-Compliant, Alternate Reality
Length: 4,514 words
Summary: One single decision can sometimes change the world. Lincoln didn't go into that garage, and he didn't end up on Death Row. Michael didn't rob that bank, and he never stepped foot inside Fox River. Sara never fell in love with an inmate, and she locked the infirmary door every single night. If everything was different, would anything stay the same?
Author's Note:This story has evolved from an old plotbunny involving a chance meeting in the most ordinary of places, and was inspired by THESE WORDS OF WISDOM from some guy called Wentworth Miller. I realise this is the longest wedding reception ever, and I'm very grateful to anyone who is still reading, lol!
~*~
Just when she thinks she’s managed to gracefully move on from the awkwardness of basically inviting herself to tag along on Michael Scofield’s next visit to his local youth shelter, he smiles at her in a way that has her realising her usual poise is still very much AWOL. “What do you say we dance instead?”
She smiles back, trying to ignore the ignoble leaping of her pulse. “Funny, I got the impression that you weren’t a fan of dancing at weddings.”
“Well, there are many different kinds of dancing.” He grins as he waves a hand towards the DJ, who has just started planning a slow number. “This I can do without stepping on any toes.” Sliding off the bar stool, he holds out his hand to her in a gesture that is unexpected as it is oddly familiar.
“Would those toes be literal or metaphorical?” Her feet hit the carpet at the same time her hand slides into his, but the only thing she feels is the warmth of his palm against hers.
His grin widens as he darts a pointed glance in her father’s general direction. “I guess we’ll find out.”
“Let me just put my purse and wrap on my seat,” she says hastily, thinking she’ll feel awkward enough without trying to juggle her belongings. To her relief, her father is holding court at another table, having obviously discovered more people he knows, and she is saved another round of explanations.
She had felt Michael’s gaze on her back with every step she had taken away from him, and his smile of anticipation as she rejoins him makes her knees feel strangely unsteady. As they step into the throng of dancing guests, she concentrates on keeping her new shoes from sliding on the parquetry floor, then he stops and turns to her with a self-conscious smile that sends a pang of longing skittering through her, and she forgets all about her shoes.
It may have been a while since she’d danced with her father, but it’s been even longer since she danced with a date. Real dancing, the kind where hands are clasped and arms slide across backs, the kind where you’re close enough to feel the warmth of someone’s skin and smell the clean, fresh scent of their aftershave. Sliding her hand up his arm to rest it on his shoulder, she feels his bicep clench beneath her touch, and a flutter of awareness curls low in her belly. Damn.
“Let me know how those toes hold up, won’t you?” He flashes her quick grin, then they start to move. Despite his earlier protestations, he dances quite well, his whole body imbued with a graceful rhythm that no amount of instruction could impart. His thigh brushes against hers with every third step, his lapels of his jacket brushes against her breasts often enough to make her catch her breath each time. As the music floats around them, she lifts her chin, letting her gaze meet his. Thanks to her heels, her mouth is little more than a whisper away from his. All it would take would be the slightest movement and -
“So, Fox River,” he says lightly, bringing her back to earth with a dull thump. “If it’s not your ideal job, what is?”
Okay. They’re going to make small talk while dancing. That’s fine. She can do that, no problem.
“I’m not sure.” She smiles at the bride’s sister over Michael’s shoulder, ignoring the comic widening of the other woman’s eyes as she registers Sara’s dance partner. “Is anyone sure?”
“I know I’m not,” he admits, the hand splayed low on her back shifting just enough to make her skin jump with anticipation. “The type of work you did in India, is that something you’d like to explore again?”
“Maybe.” She hides a smile, recognising the searching tone in his voice all too well, and wonders how many times he’s asked himself the same questions as he sat at his desk in his office in an impressively built skyscraper downtown. Katie likes to tell her that opposites attract, but there’s a lot to be said for meeting someone on the same wavelength. “The problem with that kind of work is that while it’s incredibly rewarding, it means being away from your family and friends.” She thinks of her father meeting her at the airport when she’d arrived home from Kolkata, sweeping her up in a crushing hug even as he was frowning at her choice of footwear and tattered luggage. “It takes the life/work balance issue to a whole new level, so that can be a problem.” She smiles at him. “What about you?”
“Well, my brother would tell you I already have that problem.” His gaze sweeps unhurriedly over her face, lingering on her mouth. “He thinks I spend too much time stuck behind a desk and not enough in the real world.”
Giving into the kind of temptation she’s sorely missed in the last few years, she lets the slow smile curve her mouth a little more, and the answering spark of heat in his bright gaze almost has her missing a step. Careful what you wish for, she thinks dazedly. “Is he right?”
He lifts one shoulder in a half-shrug, the movement somehow blending perfectly into the same languid, rolling rhythm of their dancing. “I’m starting to think he might be.” He smiles as his gaze snags hers, holding it long enough to make her mouth go dry. “Don’t tell him I said that, though.”
“Your secret is safe with me.” She has time to think that he’s talking as though her meeting his brother is a foregone conclusion, then the music slides into a much faster tempo as a new song begins. Couples around them begin to twist and move to the beat, but Michael is looking at her intently, his hand still holding hers, his arm still curled around her waist. He’s close enough for her to see that his eyes aren’t green or blue but an intriguing blend of both colours; close enough for the heat of his body to imprint lightly on her skin, making her feel restless and impatient for something she can’t name.
He takes a deep breath, his gaze still locked with hers. “Listen, Sara-”
“Maybe we should sit this next one out?“ The words are out of her mouth almost before she knows it, but the sound of her name on his lips and the way he’s looking at her are too much. Too much for the middle of a crowded dance floor, that’s for certain.
Whether he’s disappointed or relieved, she can’t quite tell. Either way, his hand doesn’t move from the small of her back.
“Good idea.”
She swallows hard. Perhaps, she thinks belatedly, it would have been smarter to go the safety in numbers route. He lets her lead the way off the dance floor, but she feels the brush of his hand on her back as they move through the dancing guests, and each contact seems to send a tiny current of electricity skittering down her spine. She hasn’t had an alcoholic drink or a single gram of an illicit substance for over four years, but she feels as though she’s got half a bottle of vodka or a really great hit of hospital grade morphine under her belt.
She’s not sure if she should be happy or terrified.
Perhaps she’ll settle for a mixture of both.
They end up at his table - half the guests are dancing, the other half apparently outside for a cigarette break - which seems the better choice out of the two tables. As much as they joked earlier about her introducing Michael to her father, she’s more than happy to avoid that moment until it’s completely unavoidable. Not the kind of mindset her sponsor would recommend, she thinks wryly.
She watches as he shrugs out of his suit jacket and drapes it over the back of his chair - he’s got swimmer’s shoulders, a little voice murmurs inside her head - then crosses her legs and tries to look as though she makes conversation with strange men at weddings on a regular basis. “Tell me about your brother,” she asks as Michael signals to a passing drinks waiter. “Are you close?” She’s not sure why she asks about his brother, but it seems a safe enough topic, the perfect distraction from the butterflies running rampant through her belly.
He liberates another glass of punch for her and a soda for himself, then turns to her with a chuckle. “Mostly.” At her raised eyebrow, he leans back in his chair, long fingers toying with the dessert cutlery on the table. “It’s a long and complicated and probably very boring story.”
She makes a show of checking her watch. “I’d say we’ve got at least another two hours before the bride and groom make their escape, so honestly, I’m all ears,” she tells him, a warm glow heating her face at his answering smile.
“You’re a brave woman, Sara Tancredi,” he murmurs, then reaches for his glass of soda. “Well, first things first, I guess. Our mom died when I was seven. Lincoln was twelve.”
His voice is matter-of-fact, but she hears the loss that echoes beneath the words. She thinks of his bleak expression when the best man had been waxing lyrical about family in his speech earlier that evening, and another flash of recognition clicks into place inside her. Did her own face wear that same sombre expression whenever people around her talked about their mothers? “And how did your dad cope with two young boys?”
His eyes darken, and she instantly knows she’s trodden on tender ground. “My father left before I was born.”
She can’t remember the last time she wished so hard that she could take back her words. “God, I’m sorry, I -”
He reaches across the snowy white linen table, brushing his fingertips gently over the back of her hand. “Please don’t apologise.” His hand lingers over hers for a few seconds, then falls away. “It was a long time ago. I only mentioned it because it’s kind of hard to explain me and Linc without it.” He hesitates, then gives her a painfully apologetic smile. “Seriously, you don’t want to spend the night of your friend’s wedding listening to this.”
“Actually, I do.” She reaches for her own drink, suddenly feeling as though she’s been caught up in some kind of surreal dream. Is she really sitting here, discussing personal emotional history with a man she barely knows? She takes a sip of cold fruit punch, and decides she’s had worse dreams than this. “The two of you were so young - what happened?”
She already suspects the answer, and isn’t surprised when he makes a quick grimace. “Well, we didn’t have any other relatives who could take us in, so we went into the system.” His gaze is steady and clear. “We were together at first, so it wasn’t too bad, but then Linc started getting into trouble around the neighbourhood.”
In that instant, she knows exactly why he works at the youth shelters. “Juvie?”
He nods. “In and out until he turned eighteen.” Lifting his head, he looks over her shoulder, and his face instantly changes, openness shifting into a much more guarded expression, his words a playful yet detached drawl. “Hey. Nice moves out there.”
She turns to find a couple standing behind her, and recognises them as two of Michael’s tablemates. “Oh, I’m sorry, I’ve taken your seat,” she begins immediately, but the male half of the couple waves away her apology.
“It’s not a problem,” he announces cheerfully. “We’re going to hang out at the bar a while, I think.” He looks expectantly at Michael, who instantly rises to the occasion, his tone still that oddly detached drawl.
“Sara, this is John and Nicole. John and I are on the same team at work.” He puts his hand on the back of Sara’s chair, his thumb grazing her bare shoulder blade. It’s a faintly possessive gesture that should irritate her. It doesn’t. “Guys, this is Sara.” He pauses, glances at her quickly, then looks back at his colleagues. “She went to school with the bride.”
Smiling at Michael’s less-is-more introductions, she wriggles her fingers in a tiny wave. “Nice to meet you.”
John grins at her. “You too.” He looks at Michael as he slides his hand around his date’s waist, then back at Sara. “You’re in safe hands there, trust me.”
As the other couple make their way to the bar, she glances at Michael in time to see the dark red flush that creeps across his face. “Private joke?”
“Uh, not exactly.” He looks discomforted in a way she hasn’t yet seen this evening, then offers her a sheepish smile. “In case you hadn’t already figured it out, I’m more of a ‘stay at home’ kind of guy. Hitting on beautiful women at weddings isn’t exactly my forte.”
She doesn’t try to stop the soft laughter that fizzes up from somewhere deep in her chest. “I would never have guessed,” she tells him lightly, his seemingly casual ‘beautiful woman’ comment leaving her own face warm with embarrassment. “For what it’s worth, you’re doing just fine.”
His tanned face is still tinged with colour, but his smile instantly becomes much more confident. “In that case, I think it’s your turn to over-share, don’t you?”
~*~
“In that case, I think it’s your turn to over-share, don’t you?” Whatever has taken over his brain and his tongue this evening, he’s not completely sure, but he really hopes it sticks around until he can get Sara Tancredi’s phone number. His own thought process seemed to take a vacation as soon as he took her in his arms on the dance floor. His whole body is still tingling pleasantly from the memory.
The woman in question hides a smile behind her glass of fruit punch as she takes a sip, but he sees the giveaway tilt of her wide mouth. “I’m a pretty boring person, to be honest.”
He studies her for a moment, torn between saying a dozen different things, and in the end decides on the safest answer. “I find that extremely hard to believe.”
She places her drink on the table and gazes at it intently, her thumb rubbing the condensation from the outside of the glass. “Well, there’s interesting, and then there’s the type of over-sharing guaranteed to kill any social conversation stone cold dead.”
She says it lightly, without the slightest hint of challenge, but he hears the challenge in her words nevertheless. “Try me.” He flashes her what he hopes is his most reassuring smile. “I can listen to engineers and accountants argue for hours at a time. Believe me, I can do conversation killers.”
She blows out a soft breath, shakes her head as though she can’t believe what she’s about to do, then taps one finger on the rim of her glass. “I’m not drinking tonight because I’ve been in recovery for the last four years.”
Michael stares at her. Whatever he was expecting her to say, it definitely hadn’t been that. He thinks of her weary smile in response to his designated driver comment, and suddenly a whole new vista opens up before him. He would never have thought that this woman would ever find herself wrestling with addiction, but if life with his brother has taught him anything, it’s not to judge a book by its proverbial cover. “In that case,” he tells her, meeting her gaze steadily, “I’m very happy that the fruit punch is first rate.”
Ducking her head, she chuckles softly as she wraps both hands around her glass. “So much for dramatic impact,” she quips.
He gives into the temptation to touch her hand briefly with his, enjoying the silken feel of her skin beneath his even as he wonders if he would be so accepting of such a disclosure if it came from any other woman; Veronica’s friend Allison, for instance. “That’s a huge deal, Sara. Four years sober is a real achievement, am I right?”
“So my sponsor tells me,” she murmurs. She looks more than a little embarrassed, but he can tell - he hopes he can, anyway - that his reaction has pleased her. “Anyway, that’s my over-sharing moment,” she says, nervous laughter shaking her voice, “and God, I cannot believe I told you.”
“How long does it normally take you to tell a date that you’re in recovery?” Crap. His tongue suddenly feels too big for his mouth, his brain no longer engaged with his words. “Not that this is a date in any way, shape or form, of course,” he adds quickly, repressing the childish urge to cross his fingers under the table.
“I don’t know.” Her gaze locks with his, and he feels the impact of it like a siren’s song. “In the last four years, I haven’t dated anyone long enough to want to tell them.”
The words hang in the air between then as they gaze at each other, the sound of the wedding guests’ conversation and music seeming to fade into nothing more than a muted backdrop. He wants to tell himself what he’s feeling right now is infatuation based on a very persuasive physical attraction, but he’s not sure he can manage that big a lie.
After what feels like an eternity, she purses her lips and exhales a long, soft breath. “Just so we’re clear, this kind of thing isn’t exactly my area of expertise either,” she tells him, her voice tinged with the same quiet sense of disbelief he can feel clawing at his gut.
“You’re doing just fine.”
She smiles at his use of her earlier words, her dark eyes dancing with a warmth that lights up her whole face, and he presses his hands flat on the table. He wants to kiss her, very much. He wants to feel the soft yield of her lips against his, the sigh of her breath against his tongue as she kisses him back. He thinks of how her body had grazed his on the dance floor, and a slow, thick arousal begins to burn in his blood.
To his eternal disappointment, the unmistakable sound of the MC’s voice breaks into the bubble of intimacy surrounding them, calling their attention back to the wedding proceedings. “My dad will be wondering where I am,” she says, an odd flatness creeping into her voice. “I should head back to my table, I guess.”
“There’s still the dessert table to negotiate,” he shoots back casually. “Maybe I could meet you there?”
Lifting her head, she gives him a smile that makes him feel as though he’s just won a reprieve from a life sentence. “It’s a date.”
She rises to her feet, and he hastily follows suit, tying to ease her chair out from the table before the gesture becomes pointless. When she turns to him, her lips parted as if to speak, he’s standing close enough that her hip brushes against his, and every drop of blood in his body seems to rush straight to his groin. She freezes, one hand fluttering an inch away from his chest, right above his heart, as if she suddenly feels off-balance and needs a ballast. She tilts back her head, her face raising to his as though she’s waiting for him to move closer, waiting for -
“God, get a room, Scofield,” John quips quietly in his ear with obvious amusement as he and his date file past behind him, and Michael can literally feel his face turn red.
“Sorry,” he mutters, not quite meeting Sara’s eyes, because he knows she heard John’s teasing remark, and because they’re standing in the grand ballroom of the Ritz Carlton Hotel and it would actually be incredibly easy for them to take up John’s suggestion. His whole body suffuses with heat at the thought, a sensation that dramatically increases when he sees the same realisation dawning in Sara’s eyes. “Look, Sara, would you like to grab a cup of coffee with me?”
She takes a half-step backwards, but his body is still humming like a tuning fork that’s been bashed against a granite slab. “I’d like that.” She darts a quick glance in the direction of her own table, then looks back at him. “When did you have in mind?”
“Now?”
She looks confused, and he can’t say he blames her. “Now?”
“Afterwards, I mean.” God, he’s babbling now, but with good reason. How do you tell someone you’ve just met that you can’t bear to say goodnight to them? “There’s an all-night place a few blocks from here.”
She gives him a measured look, as though trying to see behind his cheery invitation to some darker motives. He really hopes she doesn’t manage to achieve her goal, because given his thoughts right now, she might just slap his face and march off into the crowd, never to be see again. “Right.”
Crash and burn, he thinks despairingly. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have asked.”
“Actually, now that you mention it, the coffee at wedding receptions is usually pretty average.” She’s talking quickly now, her voice almost breathless, but all he cares about is that she’s accepting his invitation. “I wouldn’t mind a decent cup of coffee to wash down the dessert buffet.”
They both know it’s highly unlikely the coffee at this venue would be anything less than outstanding, but he’s more than happy to go along with her theory. He nods, taking his own half-step backward before he does something foolhardy like telling her she’s singlehandedly made this the best wedding he’s ever attended. “Better to be safe than sorry,” he agrees, and is pleased when she can’t quite disguise her eye-roll at his choice of cliché, because he’s not interested in someone who laughs mindlessly at his lame jokes. “See you after dessert, then?”
She smoothes her hands down the skirt of her dress, and it takes all his willpower not to follow the movement of her hands as they press the gauzy fabric against the curve of her thighs. She glances upward, her eyes meeting his, a silent question thrumming back and forth between them, a living, corporeal thing. “Uh, yes,” she finally says, her tone still faintly thready. “Coffee would be great.” She glances quickly over her shoulder, then turns back to him, her expression suddenly one of quiet resolve. “While everyone’s still all over the place, why don’t I introduce you to my dad?”
He follows the line of her gaze to where her father is slowly making his way back to his table, stopping briefly to greet other guests every few steps. His stomach lurches, alerting him to the fact that while he’s perfectly happy to joke about meeting Frank Tancredi, he’s not entirely comfortable with the reality. It’s something Sara obviously wants to get out of the way, though, and he’s happy to follow her lead. “Sure.”
She nods, her smile almost shy, the quick reassuring pressure of her hand on his elbow as welcome as it is unexpected. When they reach Frank Trancredi a moment later, he’s standing a few feet away from his table, wrapping up a smiling conversation with an elderly female guest. Michael has to admire the other man’s sense of timing. Obviously seeing his daughter approaching, he says a few final words to his companion, whose face is wreathed in smiles as she leaves his side.
“Hi sweetheart,” he tells his daughter cheerfully, but Michael sees the straitening of his shoulders and back, the way he pulls himself up to his full height as he turns to greet them both properly. “This your old friend?”
Old friend? Michael blinks, then holds out his hand before Sara can answer. “Michael Scofield. It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir.”
“Frank Tancredi.” The other man’s handshake is, as expected, firm enough to make Michael wince if he hadn’t braced himself for it. ”Glad to meet you, Michael.” He looks sideways at Sara, whose smile suddenly seems strained around the edges. Michael realises he’s obviously dealing with an overly protective father here, but he’s dealt with far more intimidating people than this man. “I was beginning to think my daughter was determined to keep you as her little secret.”
Then again, maybe not.
“Well, you know weddings, sir,” he says politely, understanding now why Sara had been determined to get this conversation over and done with. He can’t imagine she enjoys being treated like a recalcitrant teenager. “There are always so many things happening, it’s hard to meet everyone.”
“True, true.” Frank Tancredi studies him for a moment, his pale gaze disconcertingly shrewd, and Michael feels the ridiculous urge to wipe his damp palms on the seat of his trousers. Before he can say anything else, he feels the touch of Sara’s hand on his elbow once more.
“Michael and I are going out for coffee after the reception so we can catch up properly,” she informs her father with a smile. “I’ll be fine making my own way home, I promise.”
Michael does his best to hide his admiring smile. It doesn’t take a genius to see that this particular father-daughter relationship is a complicated one. Sara’s manner towards her father is warm, almost conciliatory, but she clearly isn’t asking his permission.
Frank Tancredi’s eyes widen slightly, then one corner of his mouth lifts in the beginnings of a wry smile. “You know, sweetheart, when you lay down the law like that, you remind me very much of your mother.”
Michael suddenly feels like an eavesdropper, but Sara saves him from further embarrassment by touching his shoulder gently. The fact that her father is standing right there should prevent him from feeling as though the light touch has sent a spark of heat through his thin shirt to his skin, but it doesn’t. “See you after the bouquet toss, Mr Scofield.”
He grins at her, then nods at her father. “Good to meet you, sir. I hope you enjoy the rest of the evening.”
“Likewise.” Wearing a practised smile, the older man looks at his daughter, then Michael, then at his daughter again. “You’ll have to come over for dinner sometime.”
Beside him, Sara makes a choked sound, then she slides her arm through the crook of her father’s elbow. “I’m sure Michael would like to get back to his friends now, Dad,” she murmurs, looking very much as though she is trying not to dissolve into laughter. Remembering her infectious reaction to his destruction of his napkin origami earlier that evening, he can’t deny he’s a little disappointed.
He makes his way back to his own table, his right hand still feeling the sting of Frank Tancredi’s bruising handshake. As he finds his seat and makes polite small talk with his colleagues and their dates, though, it’s the memory of Sara’s hand hovering over his heart that lingers.
~*~