The Right Road - Chapter Eight
Title: The Right Road (8/9)
Fandom: Prison Break
Pairing: Michael Scofield/Sara Tancredi
Characters: Michael Scofield, Sara Tancredi, Lincoln Burrows, Veronica Donovan, Frank Tancredi, various original characters
Rating: This chapter? I'd say R to be on the safe side.
Genre: AU, Non-Epilogue-Compliant, Alternate Reality
Length: 6,723 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? You can read the rest of the story HERE.
Author's Note:This chapter contains some canon dialogue that does not belong to me. Also, after some deliberation (and some good advice, thanks very much) I decided to ignore the small matter of Crab Simmons selling Lincoln's debt to The Company before he could pay it back. Finally, this is the second chapter I've posted in twenty-four hours, so if it feels like you've missed something, just click the 'HERE' link above. *g*
~*~
Other people’s laughter and conversation surrounds them, interspersed with the hiss of hot steam from the espresso machine and the sing-song voice of the staff calling out names for orders. Add the usual coffee house soundtrack music being piped from the speakers in the ceiling, and the space around them is a subtle maelstrom of sound.
Sara barely notices.
She sits, her coffee going cold in front of her, as Michael Scofield tells her an almost unbelievable story of brotherly devotion. She knows she’s in danger of romanticising his brother’s actions, but to be completely honest, she’s never regretted being an only child more.
He tells how his brother had turned up on his doorstep, saying that he was in trouble and he needed Michael to know everything because it was the only way to make things right. He tells her of his horror at learning that he’d built the last few years of his life on a lie, that his college education - and his corner office and his car and his goddamned loft - was the reason his brother was indebted to one of the city's nastier street thugs. “What did you do when he told you?”
He gives her a sheepish look. “I punched him.”
If she’d been holding her coffee cup, she might have dropped it. “Seriously?”
His tanned face is flushed. “Well, I yelled at him a lot first.” He drums his long fingers on the armrest of his chair, and she finds herself watching them, marvelling that that such elegant hands had been used to punch someone in the face. “I tore him a new one about going behind my back and lying to me for so long, and that with my SAT scores I could have gotten a scholarship and why the hell didn’t he think about that before he went out and ruined his life.” His gaze meets hers for a few seconds, then drops down to the small table between them. “I’ve had more noble moments in my life, believe me.”
She cannot imagine what it would be like to discover someone you loved had made such a sacrifice for you. “I can understand why you felt that way, though.”
“I wish I could say my brother was as understanding that night.” An almost weary half-smile quirks his lips. “He told me I was behaving like a spoiled, immature brat, and maybe I was just disappointed because knowing the truth meant I couldn’t make myself feel better by comparing my life to his anymore.”
She can’t help wincing. “Ouch.”
“Yeah.” He looks at her as he reaches for his coffee. “That’s when I punched him.”
She feels like the worst kind of voyeur, hanging on his every word, but she’s fascinated by the layers being peeled back before her eyes. “And?”
“Oh, he punched me back,” he says casually, “and it was at that moment I remembered something important that I really should have remembered earlier.”
“What was that?”
Michael grins at her. “He’s a lot bigger than me.”
Laughter fizzes up in her throat, but he doesn’t seem to mind. On the contrary, her reaction only makes him smile more. “We spent an hour or two yelling at each other, and I made coffee and we sat down and tried to work out how to fix the mess he was in.” As if he’s suddenly reminded himself of its existence, he lifts his cup to his lips, then makes a face. “Cold.”
She smiles. “So’s mine.”
“Maybe we should go for something chilled next time,” he says, then gives her a pointed look. “I’m buying.”
“Sure.” She couldn’t care less who pays for the next drink. “How did you work it out?”
“I wanted to sell my car, but he wouldn’t let me. Said I’d earned it.” He frowns, and Sara thinks she may have found the explanation for his less-than-enthusiastic response to her admiration of his Audi. “So I took out a second mortgage and worked a lot of overtime. Lincoln moved in with me, took every job that came his way, and we both spent the next two years living off noodles and cheap beer.”
He tells her all this in a matter-of-fact voice, as though this is something people do for their siblings every day. This story of brother devotion, Sara realises, is definitely a two-way street. “And now he’s running his own business?”
“Yep.” The emotion gleaming in Michael’s vivid eyes is easily identifiable as pride. “He worked during the day and studied at night to get his personal trainer certification.”
She doesn’t know his brother - hell, she hardly knows him - but the thought of someone turning their life around so thoroughly makes her feel a small measure of his obvious pride. Maybe this is how Katie felt, she thinks, the first time Sara had shared the demons of her past. It would certainly explain the tearful hug she’d received that particular day. “Good for him.” She reaches for her purse, then remembers she’s been forbidden from buying the next round of coffee. “I take it he doesn’t live with you anymore?”
He laughs. “No, thank God. He and his girlfriend live near Northwestern, which is close enough to my place to hang out and far enough away to keep everyone happy.”
“My old stomping ground,” she says with a smile, then she hesitates, battling her rising curiosity. Maybe she’s already used up her quota of personal questions, but her current apartment isn’t that far from her old campus, and if Michael lives near her old campus- Her curiosity wins. “Where’s your place, if you don’t mind me asking?”
His smile seems to indicate he doesn’t mind her asking in the slightest. “Ogden Avenue.”
She stares at him. “Seriously?”
“Yes, why?”
Her father would pitch a fit if he knew she was telling a relative stranger where she lives, but her father isn’t here. “I’m on Van Leer Drive.”
It’s his turn to stare. “You live in my neighbourhood?”
She feels like a tourist who has struck up conversation with a fellow countryman at the top of the Eiffel Tower only to find they live in the same street back home. “It looks that way.”
He leans back in his chair, his eyes never leaving her face. “How is it possible that I’ve never met you before today?”
Coming from another man, Sara decides, the question might sound like a practiced pickup line. Coming from Michael Scofield, however, it sounds like he’s genuinely annoyed with himself. She smiles at him, praying he can’t tell that her pulse seems to have abruptly spiked. “Well, I don’t get out much.”
He laughs at that, his bright eyes crinkling at the corners. “That makes two of us.” He looks as though he wants to say something else, but seems to think better of it. “My turn,” he announces as he gets to his feet, pulling his wallet from his back pocket. “What would you like?”
She’s had all the double espresso she can handle for one evening, she thinks. “Iced tea would be great.”
“Done.”
She doesn’t fight the urge to watch him as he walks to the counter, nor does she try to stop herself from ticking off several tiny ingrained boxes in her head. It’s an eclectic list, one that frequently drives Katie to despair, leading her to tell Sara again and again that she is looking for someone who doesn’t exist.
Nice guy. Tall. Amazing eyes. Smart. Polite. Loves his family. Cares about the underprivileged in their community. Possibly shy. Beautiful smile, good laugh. Possible deep-seated emotional issues due to childhood trauma. Great shoulders.
She watches his mouth move as he chats to the barista, his beautifully shaped hands moving through the air as he speaks, and she suddenly very much wants to know how they would feel - that mouth, those hands - on her skin.
She is, Sara decides, in very big trouble here.
Shamelessly studying him now, she’s intrigued by the way the overhead lights make his scalp shine through the buzz cut he’s sporting. Catching a glimpse of something oddly familiar, she narrows her gaze, wondering if she’s seeing things. No, she’s not seeing things. She studies the faint but unmistakable scars she knows were made by a halo brace and, when he turns to grab some napkins, she sees a thin, pale line towards the crown of his head.
You will not ask, she tells herself sternly. Just because you’re comfortable discussing medical procedures at the drop of a hat, doesn’t mean he would want to talk about it.
One of the staff clears away their used cups and, suddenly feeling the need to occupy her hands, Sara toys with the silver clasp of her purse, clicking it open and shut. It’s been a while since she experienced this odd feeling of urgency, the rush to discover everything you possibly can about another person. It had started, she realises now, the moment she’d turned around in the church to find him watching her, and the hunger to discover everything she can about this man has only grown with every moment she spends in his company. She just hopes she’s not the only one feeling it.
The cheerfully loud voice of the girl working behind the counter cuts through her reverie. “Lando, your order is ready.”
Sara is still laughing when Michael reaches her, an iced tea in one hand and a bottle of water in the other. “Lando?”
He’s grinning like an errant schoolboy, although she definitely doesn’t remember seeing any boys like him when she was at school. “You like that one?” His grin broadens as he sits down beside her. “I’ll have to remember to use it on my brother.”
She takes the iced tea from his hand, almost jumping when his fingers slide against hers. “Star Wars fans?”
“Wasn’t everyone?” He takes a long sip of his water before leaning back in his chair, one leg casually crossed over the opposite knee. His tie has been loosened, something he must have down while he was at the counter, the top button undone. She remembers her earlier mental slideshow involving her own hands doing just that, and a rush of heat washes over her. “Only the original trilogy, though.”
She laughs, amusement mingling with attraction and turning it into something warm and vital, pressing outwards against her skin. “Of course.”
He raises his bottle of water to her. “You too?”
He obviously approves, and it’s ridiculous, she knows, but she can’t resist the urge to impress him a little more. “I had a whole shelf of action figures.”
His eyes light up, and she can’t help thinking that inside every adult, there’s a child waiting to be appeased. “Is that so?” He narrows his gaze, as if suddenly doubting her word. “What was your favourite?”
It’s been years since she thought about the toys that had once thrilled her so much, but this is a question she can answer. “Uh, the Millennium Falcon model, I guess.”
“Ah, the Holy Grail.” He snaps his fingers, shaking his head at her, his teeth white against his tan as he grins. “I don’t know if we can be friends anymore.”
He’s teasing her, and it feels good, but she’s suddenly acutely aware that a child who spent so much time in the foster system probably wouldn’t have had many toys, let alone the coveted collector's item they’re discussing. In an instant, her side of the conversation feels less like flirting and more like boasting. “I think it’s still in storage somewhere,” she tells him, and his eyes widen.
“Are you kidding me?”
“I’m pretty sure.” If it is in storage, it’s with her mother’s belongings that her father couldn’t bear to throw away, and that’s not a topic of conversation she wants to broach tonight.
“Well, if you ever wanted to make a few bucks, you’d get a mint for it on eBay.”
She chuckles. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Of course,” he says, a smirk tugging at his lips, “if you wanted to make it a private sale instead, I’d be more than happy to take it off your hands.”
The butterflies in the pit of her stomach, having been lazily somersaulting for the last hour or so, promptly commence an energetic aerobic routine. “I’ll keep that in mind, too.”
Grinning, he reaches a hand upwards, rubbing his palm over his scalp in a quick, almost nervous gesture, and her gaze is drawn once again to the faded scars beneath the prickle of his dark hair. She hadn’t noticed them until he’d stood beneath the gleaming lights at the counter, but now that she knows they’re there, they’re easy to find. To her consternation, he notices she’s looking. Before she can drop her gaze, he taps the scar closest to his temple with one long finger and gives her a quick smile. “If my brother were here, he’d tell you that’s where I had the devil horns removed.”
“I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to stare-”
“It’s okay, really.”
His tone is light, his body language relaxed. Gathering up her courage, she takes the opening he’s given her. “Impressive battle scars.”
He smiles. “I had a health scare a while back."
She's a doctor, dealing with illness, injury and death on a regular basis. Her blood shouldn't suddenly feel chilled at his words, but it does. "Nothing too serious, I hope?"
"Do you know anything about hypothalamic hamartomas?”
“Not a lot.” She tries to remember everything she knows about the tumor he’s named. To her dismay, it’s not very much. “It’s benign, I know that much.”
He nods. “Benign, but very invasive and very tricky to remove.”
She looks at the perfectly formed, tiny circles imprinted on his scalp, and she wants to trace them with her own fingers. “When were you diagnosed?”
“Just over a year ago.”
She looks at him. He’s the picture of glowing good health, with perfect teeth, clear eyes, excellent skin tone. The thought that he’d had major neurosurgery only twelve months earlier doesn’t seem possible. “When did you have the surgery?”
“A month after I was diagnosed.” He meets her gaze steadily. “I wanted to wait, explore a few different avenues, but Lincoln didn’t think that was a very good idea.” He brushes his fingertips over the scar once more, then darts a quick smile at her. “Three weeks later, I was back at work, no more headaches or nosebleeds or wanting to eat whole pies in a single sitting, so I guess he was right.”
She smiles back, not bothering to analyse the relief she feels over the health of a man she’s only just met. Analysing means over-thinking, and she’s determined not to over-think anything tonight. “Sounds like you were a model patient.”
He snorts with amusement, as if there are many stories he could tell her, none of which are flattering. “Well, I don’t know about that.”
“And you’re okay now?”
“Never felt better.” He reaches out to pick up his bottle of water, then settles back in his chair. “Tell me more about Fox River?”
Recognising a request for a change of subject when she hears one, she does. She tells him how a casual - or perhaps not that casual, considering Brad Bellick - remark at an AA meeting led to her working at Fox River. She tells him about Katie, how grateful she is to have another woman on the staff, especially one who has become a good friend. She tells him about Henry Pope, the man who gave her a job not as a favour to her father, but because he actually believed she could make a difference. Thinking of his passion for architecture, she tells him about the ornate cornices that line ceilings of the prison’s hallways, and the sense of both history and hopelessness that hits her every time she steps through the main gates and sees the words engraved above the archway that implore the inmates to ‘make time serve you’.
She swallows the last mouthful of her iced tea, and decides she’s had enough of Fox River for one night. “What were you doing with your napkin at the reception?”
He blinks at the sudden change of topic, then smiles at her. “Origami.”
“Do you do that often?”
He gives her a look of mock indignation. “You got something against origami?”
“Not at all, it’s just-” How can she put this? It’s not something I expected to see a very attractive man doing at a formal dinner? Maybe not. “It was unusual, that’s all.”
He’s smiling again, reaching down to pluck one of the napkins from the small coffee table. “We learned how to make a crane in grade school, and when I realised I was really good at it, I kept doing it.” As he talks, he’s folding the white paper napkin, his fingers flying. “I taught Lincoln how to make them, and it became a family thing.” He glances up at her, as if to make sure she’s watching his demonstration. “He used to leave one in my room when he’d come home late or leave early in the morning, just so I’d find it when I woke up.” He glances up at her again, and in his wistful expression, she sees something of the young boy he’d once been. “Just so I’d know he was looking out for me, no matter what else was going on.”
A pang of tenderness tightens her throat. “Some people live a long time without ever knowing that feeling.”
“I know.” His expression is one of complete absorption, just as it had been when she’d watched him during the wedding reception, and she thinks of what it would be like to have that single-minded focus directed towards her.
Her mouth goes dry at the thought.
“Paper napkins aren’t the best material to work with,” he murmurs as a perfectly formed white paper crane suddenly appears in his grasp, making a mockery of his words, “but you get the idea.” He holds out his hand, the small paper bird dangling from his fingertips, and she instinctively puts out her own hand. He drops the crane gently into her palm, then smiles into her eyes. “That one’s on the house.”
Several dozen emotions - none of them simple - are clattering around inside her as she carefully tucks the crane into her purse. “Thank you.”
It’s late, and maybe she should think about finding a taxi, but instead she has a mug of peppermint tea (iced coffee for him this time), Michael cheerfully ignoring her insistence that it was her turn to buy the drinks. The crowd around them ebbs and flows, students with laptops gradually replaced by those seeking one last pit stop before heading home after leaving the various bars and clubs in the area. The faintest trace of stale cigarette smoke and booze is now threaded through the scent of coffee and cinnamon; she remembers those particular scents clinging to her own clothes and skin all too well.
Maybe she should have done so, given how much he’s shared with her, but apart from the passing mention of her AA meetings, she doesn’t go into any further details about her recovery. To her relief, Michael doesn’t ask for any. She’s not ashamed of what she’s achieved, but she doesn’t want to have a discussion about morphine, not tonight.
Michael listens attentively when she talks, asking questions every now and then, questions that feel more like genuine curiosity, rather than an attempt to simply make conversation. Leaving the topic of Fox River behind them, they move onto television, books and movies. To her complete lack of surprise, he likes the same comedies she does, although he displays a disappointingly clichéd attitude towards some of the more female-orientated movies she likes. Still, she thinks as she tries to keep from staring at the tanned hollow of his throat exposed by his unbuttoned shirt collar, nobody's perfect.
As they talk, she can feel her whole body relaxing, pleasantly sinking into the depths of the comfortable coffee house armchair. His voice is rich and melodious, almost soothing, and she enjoys listening to his questions far more than the sound of her own voice. When a yawn threatens to crack her jaw in the middle of a sentence, though, she suddenly realises she might have mistaken relaxation for weariness. She looks at her watch, and literally feels her jaw drop.
“What’s up?”
She looks at the man sitting opposite her. “It’s almost three o'clock.”
He blinks, then looks at his own watch. “Wow.” He lifts his head, his gaze meeting hers. “We should go, I guess.”
The obvious reluctance in his voice makes it easier to face the inevitable end of this time together. “Probably a good idea.” She smiles at him. “You’ve got to do some mentoring tomorrow, after all.”
He hesitates, then gives her a hopeful smile. “Is there any chance I can persuade you to let me drive you home?”
Maybe she should play coy or hard to get or any number of irritating mind games, but her gut instinct tells her that not only will this man deliver her to her door safe and sound, but also that if she refuses, he will wait with her - without complaining - until she has tracked down that elusive creature, the late night taxi. “I can hardly protest that you’d be going out of your way, can I?” she quips as she gathers up her wrap and her purse.
He gets to his feet, his gaze sweeping over her in a way that has her hands fumbling with her belongings. “No, you cannot.”
“In that case, that’s most kind of you, good sir.”
He chuckles at her reply, stepping back to let her negotiate her way past the wooden table and out of the little corner where they’ve been ensconced for over four hours. “Seems the least I could do, seeing as I forced you to stay out way past your bedtime.”
There is no innuendo in his words whatsoever, but she feels the blood rush to her face all the same. When she turns to look at him, he’s close enough for her to feel the warmth of his body and smell the spicy tang of his aftershave. His eyes darken as his gaze meets hers, and she abruptly feels as though all the air is being sucked from the room. They’re standing in the middle of a brightly lit coffee shop, surrounded by people inhaling brownies and coffee, and all she can think of is how much she wants him to kiss her. “Not to mention making me miss out on a ride home from my dad,” she finally says in a voice that sounds as though it’s struggling to make itself heard.
She sees his throat work as he swallows, then he nods, his hand grazing her elbow in an all-too-fleeting touch. “That too, of course.”
It’s something of a relief to step into the fresh air, the heat of the previous day forgotten in the predawn cool. She drapes her wrap around her shoulders, more for something to do with her hands than the cooler temperature. Beside her, Michael is silent, his hands in his pockets as they walk. It’s a silence that blossoms between them as they walk toward his car and, as she feared she might as soon as she had some breathing space, she starts thinking too much.
He hasn’t asked for her number, but there’s no reason she can’t ask for his. He hasn’t mentioned anything about seeing her again, but he obviously enjoyed being with her this evening. The memory of being in his arms while they were dancing is etched into every inch of her skin, but apart from a few polite brushes of his hand against her arm, he hasn’t touched her since they left the dance floor.
He unlocks the car, opens the door for her, then steps back to give her room to get in. It all gives her a feeling of déjà vu, although this time she’s no longer worried about running out of things to say to him, but running out of time in which to say them.
He slides into the driver’s seat and shuts the door behind him, creating a quiet cocoon around them, then looks at her expectantly. Wishing she was better at this part of the dating game, she swallows hard, suddenly lost for words. “Uh, do you need directions?”
He gives her a smile. “No, I’m good.” He starts the ignition, and a moment later they’re gliding smoothly through the sparse early morning traffic. “Although you might need to tell me which house is yours once we get onto Van Leer.”
She smiles back. “1616, and I’ll have you know it’s an apartment block, not a house.”
Silence settles over them once more, and it’s a relief when he reaches out and flicks on the car radio. One of the local stations - the kind that plays what Katie calls ‘acid wash rock’ - blares into life. As if pre-empting her reaction, Michael offers her a sheepish grin. “I’ve got some CDs if you’d prefer.”
“No, it’s fine.” She tilts her head to one side as she listens to the song playing, then looks at him. “God, the last time I heard this song was at my prom.”
His long fingers are tapping the steering wheel in time with the beat. “Did your dad insist on inspecting your date beforehand?”
She feels a blush creeping up the back of her neck. “Uh, yes.”
He laughs quietly under his breath. “I can imagine.”
The conversation meanders through several subjects for the next fifteen minutes, discussing their respective CD collections - as she suspected, his is alarmingly eclectic - and the kids he’d be seeing at the shelter that weekend. When the Audi finally turns onto her street, she’s assailed by a sudden rush of panic.
I don’t want this to end.
She directs him to her apartment building, halfway along the street on the right, and this time she notices the free parking space at the same time he does. He parks the car with unsettling speed and accuracy, then turns to her, the words leaving his lips in a quiet rush. “May I walk you to the door?”
Her stomach flips over, her hands curling around the seat belt strap she’s in the middle of unfastening. “Sure.”
She knows now that he likes to open doors, but it feels far too awkward sitting in the car, waiting to be released. It’s no mean feat to maintain your dignity while climbing out of an Audi wearing a strapless, knee-length dress, but she manages to make it work. She can’t help admiring his old-school etiquette, though, and gives him a warm smile when he joins her on the pavement. “Thank you again for driving me home.”
He looks at her, his normally vivid eyes dark in the half-light, his voice dropping to little more than a lush whisper. “My pleasure.”
She’s not in the least bit cold, but a fragile shiver dances down her spine, like cool hands on hot skin. “Uh, I’m just here,” she stumbles over the words, her arm feeling like limp spaghetti as she gestures toward her nearby building.
He falls into step beside her, and a few seconds later, when the spike of her right heel wobbles on the uneven concrete pathway, his hand curls around her elbow, steadying her in a way that manages to have completely the opposite effect. His hand is warm, the feel of his thumb resting in the crook of her elbow making her feel as though her arm has been dusted in itching powder.
He says nothing as they walk down the narrow pathway to the security door that leads into the foyer of her apartment complex. When they reach the door, he drops his hand, and she mourns the loss of contact. The small light above the door casts a pale yellow glow over them, and she can’t help regretting that the bulb isn’t blown as it so often is. They’ve been alone in a crowd all evening, and now that they’re finally truly alone, she feels as though they’re standing in a spotlight.
Realising with a start that she’s supposed to be finding her keys, she snaps open her purse to do just that. “I had a really good time tonight,” she says without looking at him, wanting to fill the thick void of anticipation that seems to be humming between them, and immediately wants to smack herself for resorting to such a tired old line.
“Me too.” He leans against the wall, a casual pose to match his next casual words. “I suppose you’ll be going to the Governor’s house next weekend for the usual 4th July fireworks shindig.”
She can’t remember the last time she heard the word shindig in everyday conversation, and hearing it now makes her smile. “Not necessarily.” She still can’t see her keys, confounded that they could elude her in such a small purse, although the addition of an origami crane might have complicated the issue. Keeping her hands busy does nothing to distract her from the implications of his question, but she’s careful not to jump to any conclusions. Abandoning the half-hearted search for her keys, she looks up to find him watching her with an intensity that makes her want to join him in leaning against the wall. “Why do you ask?”
“My brother and his girlfriend are having a barbecue on Saturday.” He hesitates, making her hold her breath, then smiles. “Would you like to come?”
Her heart does an odd little two-step, and she has the feeling her smile matches his. “Are you asking me on a date?”
He grins, looking decidedly relieved. “Yes.”
A large part of her wants to say yes in a very loud voice, but a smaller, more perverse part of her gives into the urge to tease him. “You don’t waste any time, do you?”
“We’ve lived in the same city for thirty years and I’ve only just met you.” His gaze drops to her mouth, as light as a butterfly’s wings, then lifts to her eyes once more. “I’m just trying to make up for lost time.”
“I would love to come, but first I have to tell you something,” she hears herself say in a rush, as though the words will no longer be kept still. “Something I didn’t mention tonight because -” She stops, her gut instinct telling her to not waste time making excuses but simply tell him. She has no idea what’s going to happen between them, but she needs him to know this one thing. If it changes his perception of her for the worse, then at least she will know now, tonight, before she lets herself fall any further. “I was an addict four years ago, and I’m an addict now.” She forces herself to meet his gaze steadily, despite her fear at what she might see in his eyes. “I’m in recovery now and I’ve been clean for four years come Tuesday, but I will always be an addict.”
He smiles, his gaze clear and warm. “Congratulations.” Confused, she stares at him. Still smiling, he reaches out and takes the purse from her hands, carefully setting it on the ground beside his feet. “That makes Tuesday your fourth anniversary, right?”
Oh, God. She doesn’t remember moving toward him, but there seems to be considerably less distance between them now than there had been when they’d first arrived at her door. “Don’t you want to know why I checked into rehab?”
“Not if you don’t feel ready to tell me.” He touches her face, his palm soft against her cheek, his fingertips grazing the curve of her ear. “When you are ready, I’ll be all ears.”
She wants to smile, but his touch is making her feel as though an invisible band is tightening around her chest. She wants to move, but she feels strangely immobile, almost frozen on the spot despite the heat that seems to have infiltrated her blood and her bones. She wants to say his name, but there’s no time, because he dips his head and brushes his lips against hers, once, then twice, a maddeningly light caress that leaves her restless and wanting things she normally would hesitate to even imagine. He draws away slightly, the puff of his breath warm against her lips, his gaze searching her face, waiting. Waiting for permission, absolution, an invitation.
Waiting for her.
She touches his chest, her hand splayed flat over his heart, and feels the heat of his skin through his shirt. When she curls her hand around his tie, he gives her a silently imploring glance that makes her feel invincible, and she lifts her face to his.
He leans back, settling himself against the wall in one unhurried motion, taking her with him as he kisses her again, and this time, it’s not a light caress. This kiss is a deliberate, languid tasting of her mouth, his tongue teasing her bottom lip with a delicate precision that has her fingers digging into the firm flesh beneath his cotton shirt. She breathes a sigh against his mouth, her body shifting, seeking, finding, her breasts brushing against his chest, her hand dropping to curl around his hipbone.
He makes a rough sound in the back of his throat, then she feels the weight of his arm around her waist, gently pulling her closer. She lets herself savour the last moment of anticipation, then she opens her mouth to his kiss, drinking in the taste of him, coffee and sugar and salt and heat. His tongue brushes hers, a lazy, lush tangle of slick heat, and the thrum of arousal blossoms into life low in her belly, heavy between her thighs and the tips of her breasts. One lean thigh slides between hers, and a shock of pure pleasure rips through her at the feel of him against her, the thick ridge of his erection pressing hard against the hollow ache between her legs, the heat flashing from his skin to hers despite the many layers of wedding guest finery.
Acting solely on instinct, she gently bites at his bottom lip, delighting in the shudder that she feels ripple through his body. A long moment later, he lifts his head, his mouth looking as tender as hers feels, and gazes at her as though he’s just discovered a precious, long-forgotten artefact of the architectural world. He exhales shakily, then rests his forehead against hers. His skin is damp with sweat, but she doesn’t care. “I’m going to need to call you several times between now and next Saturday,” he murmurs, the words tiny whispers of warmth against her swollen mouth.
It’s hard to think when his hands are on her hips and she’s pressed against him from shoulder to knee and she can feel every single beat of his heart. “Is that right?”
“Mmmm.” Lifting one hand from her waist, he brushes back the hair from her bare shoulder, tracing the curve of her neck with his fingertip. If she had the energy, she thinks, she’d blush. “But that could prove difficult if I don’t have your number.”
She draws back enough to see his face, then rubs her thumb over his lips, smiling at the smudge of lipstick at the corner of his mouth. “I don’t have a pen.”
“Just tell me.” His smile, now lipstick-free, is almost a smirk. “I’ll remember it.”
She wonders if she should also tell him that the feel of his mouth on hers is the closest she’s come to feeling high since she got sober, then decides she’ll save that for another day. Another night.
Putting her lips to his ear, she recites her phone number twice, his hand tightening on her hip with each new digit. When she’s done, she shifts backward in his embrace, knowing she needs to be alone on the other side of that door soon, or she will end up rushing into something that she would much rather savour. “You got that?”
The tanned column of his throat works as he swallows. “Yes.” He closes his eyes for a few seconds, then pushes himself away from the wall, gently turning her towards the door. “You’d better go in.” Picking up her purse from the ground, he retrieves her keys, and presses them into her hand.
Her palms are damp, but she manages to open the security door. Once she’s gripping the handle, she tucks her purse beneath her arm and turns to face him. “If you do happen to forget the number-”
He touches her one last time, smoothing his palm down her arm from elbow to wrist, his fingers dancing lightly over the hammering pulse beneath her skin, and her knees almost buckle at the deceptively chaste touch. “I won’t.”
She catches his hand in hers, threading her fingers between his tightly. Dangerous, she knows, and all too easy to draw him inside, to not let him vanish into the first gray light of dawn. “If you do, though? I’m in the book.”
His hand tightens around hers, then he lifts it to his lips, pressing a hard kiss to her knuckles. She has time to commit the feel of his mouth on her skin to memory, then he’s dropping her hand and stepping away from her. “Goodnight, Sara.”
She smiles at him, knowing that this has been the strangest, and most intoxicating evening, she’s had in a very, very long time. Wondering how it’s possible to be so tired and yet so exhilarated at the same time, she gives him a tiny wave as she opens the door, unable to resist the urge to part on a suitably unconventional note. “Goodnight, Phineas.”
His eyes light up, his smile almost stretching from ear to ear. He takes one half-step toward her, sending her pulse rocketing skyward once again, then he seems to give himself a mental shake. “I’ll call you.”
She leans her head against the edge of the now open door, deciding that playing hard to get is overrated. “I hope so.”
He takes several slow steps backward, his eyes still locked with hers, as if he’s trying to memorise the sight of her. When he reaches the pathway to the sidewalk, he gives her a final wave and, as he turns away, she can see he’s still grinning.
The next half hour passes in a slow blur of familiar ritual that utterly fails to dislodge the feeling of her feet not quite touching the ground. She shuts the security door behind her, reaching her own front door a moment later. Shoes kicked off, purse and wrap dumped onto the end of her bed, earrings dropped into the bowl on her bedroom dresser. Dress stripped off and draped over the chair in the corner of her room, then into the bathroom to wash away her makeup and clean her teeth. Everything is very ordinary, a litany of tasks she does every single day, almost without thinking, but she feels as though she’s doing each and every one for the first time.
When she finally slips into bed, she relishes at the feel of the cool cotton sheets against her too-warm skin. Her summer pyjamas make her feel both too constricted and too exposed, every inch of her body oddly sensitive, as though it’s been charged with static electricity. Her air-conditioner still isn’t working, but she doesn’t care. Rolling onto her side, she hugs her spare pillow to her chest and allows herself to wallow in the memory of the last few hours.
Burying her smile in the pillow in her arms, she replays their kiss - God, that kiss - over and over in her head, the same spasm of desire twisting through her belly every time. When she finally falls asleep, though, her last thought is of the small paper bird tucked into her purse, a fragile token that feels almost like a promise.
~*~
Fandom: Prison Break
Pairing: Michael Scofield/Sara Tancredi
Characters: Michael Scofield, Sara Tancredi, Lincoln Burrows, Veronica Donovan, Frank Tancredi, various original characters
Rating: This chapter? I'd say R to be on the safe side.
Genre: AU, Non-Epilogue-Compliant, Alternate Reality
Length: 6,723 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? You can read the rest of the story HERE.
Author's Note:This chapter contains some canon dialogue that does not belong to me. Also, after some deliberation (and some good advice, thanks very much) I decided to ignore the small matter of Crab Simmons selling Lincoln's debt to The Company before he could pay it back. Finally, this is the second chapter I've posted in twenty-four hours, so if it feels like you've missed something, just click the 'HERE' link above. *g*
~*~
Other people’s laughter and conversation surrounds them, interspersed with the hiss of hot steam from the espresso machine and the sing-song voice of the staff calling out names for orders. Add the usual coffee house soundtrack music being piped from the speakers in the ceiling, and the space around them is a subtle maelstrom of sound.
Sara barely notices.
She sits, her coffee going cold in front of her, as Michael Scofield tells her an almost unbelievable story of brotherly devotion. She knows she’s in danger of romanticising his brother’s actions, but to be completely honest, she’s never regretted being an only child more.
He tells how his brother had turned up on his doorstep, saying that he was in trouble and he needed Michael to know everything because it was the only way to make things right. He tells her of his horror at learning that he’d built the last few years of his life on a lie, that his college education - and his corner office and his car and his goddamned loft - was the reason his brother was indebted to one of the city's nastier street thugs. “What did you do when he told you?”
He gives her a sheepish look. “I punched him.”
If she’d been holding her coffee cup, she might have dropped it. “Seriously?”
His tanned face is flushed. “Well, I yelled at him a lot first.” He drums his long fingers on the armrest of his chair, and she finds herself watching them, marvelling that that such elegant hands had been used to punch someone in the face. “I tore him a new one about going behind my back and lying to me for so long, and that with my SAT scores I could have gotten a scholarship and why the hell didn’t he think about that before he went out and ruined his life.” His gaze meets hers for a few seconds, then drops down to the small table between them. “I’ve had more noble moments in my life, believe me.”
She cannot imagine what it would be like to discover someone you loved had made such a sacrifice for you. “I can understand why you felt that way, though.”
“I wish I could say my brother was as understanding that night.” An almost weary half-smile quirks his lips. “He told me I was behaving like a spoiled, immature brat, and maybe I was just disappointed because knowing the truth meant I couldn’t make myself feel better by comparing my life to his anymore.”
She can’t help wincing. “Ouch.”
“Yeah.” He looks at her as he reaches for his coffee. “That’s when I punched him.”
She feels like the worst kind of voyeur, hanging on his every word, but she’s fascinated by the layers being peeled back before her eyes. “And?”
“Oh, he punched me back,” he says casually, “and it was at that moment I remembered something important that I really should have remembered earlier.”
“What was that?”
Michael grins at her. “He’s a lot bigger than me.”
Laughter fizzes up in her throat, but he doesn’t seem to mind. On the contrary, her reaction only makes him smile more. “We spent an hour or two yelling at each other, and I made coffee and we sat down and tried to work out how to fix the mess he was in.” As if he’s suddenly reminded himself of its existence, he lifts his cup to his lips, then makes a face. “Cold.”
She smiles. “So’s mine.”
“Maybe we should go for something chilled next time,” he says, then gives her a pointed look. “I’m buying.”
“Sure.” She couldn’t care less who pays for the next drink. “How did you work it out?”
“I wanted to sell my car, but he wouldn’t let me. Said I’d earned it.” He frowns, and Sara thinks she may have found the explanation for his less-than-enthusiastic response to her admiration of his Audi. “So I took out a second mortgage and worked a lot of overtime. Lincoln moved in with me, took every job that came his way, and we both spent the next two years living off noodles and cheap beer.”
He tells her all this in a matter-of-fact voice, as though this is something people do for their siblings every day. This story of brother devotion, Sara realises, is definitely a two-way street. “And now he’s running his own business?”
“Yep.” The emotion gleaming in Michael’s vivid eyes is easily identifiable as pride. “He worked during the day and studied at night to get his personal trainer certification.”
She doesn’t know his brother - hell, she hardly knows him - but the thought of someone turning their life around so thoroughly makes her feel a small measure of his obvious pride. Maybe this is how Katie felt, she thinks, the first time Sara had shared the demons of her past. It would certainly explain the tearful hug she’d received that particular day. “Good for him.” She reaches for her purse, then remembers she’s been forbidden from buying the next round of coffee. “I take it he doesn’t live with you anymore?”
He laughs. “No, thank God. He and his girlfriend live near Northwestern, which is close enough to my place to hang out and far enough away to keep everyone happy.”
“My old stomping ground,” she says with a smile, then she hesitates, battling her rising curiosity. Maybe she’s already used up her quota of personal questions, but her current apartment isn’t that far from her old campus, and if Michael lives near her old campus- Her curiosity wins. “Where’s your place, if you don’t mind me asking?”
His smile seems to indicate he doesn’t mind her asking in the slightest. “Ogden Avenue.”
She stares at him. “Seriously?”
“Yes, why?”
Her father would pitch a fit if he knew she was telling a relative stranger where she lives, but her father isn’t here. “I’m on Van Leer Drive.”
It’s his turn to stare. “You live in my neighbourhood?”
She feels like a tourist who has struck up conversation with a fellow countryman at the top of the Eiffel Tower only to find they live in the same street back home. “It looks that way.”
He leans back in his chair, his eyes never leaving her face. “How is it possible that I’ve never met you before today?”
Coming from another man, Sara decides, the question might sound like a practiced pickup line. Coming from Michael Scofield, however, it sounds like he’s genuinely annoyed with himself. She smiles at him, praying he can’t tell that her pulse seems to have abruptly spiked. “Well, I don’t get out much.”
He laughs at that, his bright eyes crinkling at the corners. “That makes two of us.” He looks as though he wants to say something else, but seems to think better of it. “My turn,” he announces as he gets to his feet, pulling his wallet from his back pocket. “What would you like?”
She’s had all the double espresso she can handle for one evening, she thinks. “Iced tea would be great.”
“Done.”
She doesn’t fight the urge to watch him as he walks to the counter, nor does she try to stop herself from ticking off several tiny ingrained boxes in her head. It’s an eclectic list, one that frequently drives Katie to despair, leading her to tell Sara again and again that she is looking for someone who doesn’t exist.
Nice guy. Tall. Amazing eyes. Smart. Polite. Loves his family. Cares about the underprivileged in their community. Possibly shy. Beautiful smile, good laugh. Possible deep-seated emotional issues due to childhood trauma. Great shoulders.
She watches his mouth move as he chats to the barista, his beautifully shaped hands moving through the air as he speaks, and she suddenly very much wants to know how they would feel - that mouth, those hands - on her skin.
She is, Sara decides, in very big trouble here.
Shamelessly studying him now, she’s intrigued by the way the overhead lights make his scalp shine through the buzz cut he’s sporting. Catching a glimpse of something oddly familiar, she narrows her gaze, wondering if she’s seeing things. No, she’s not seeing things. She studies the faint but unmistakable scars she knows were made by a halo brace and, when he turns to grab some napkins, she sees a thin, pale line towards the crown of his head.
You will not ask, she tells herself sternly. Just because you’re comfortable discussing medical procedures at the drop of a hat, doesn’t mean he would want to talk about it.
One of the staff clears away their used cups and, suddenly feeling the need to occupy her hands, Sara toys with the silver clasp of her purse, clicking it open and shut. It’s been a while since she experienced this odd feeling of urgency, the rush to discover everything you possibly can about another person. It had started, she realises now, the moment she’d turned around in the church to find him watching her, and the hunger to discover everything she can about this man has only grown with every moment she spends in his company. She just hopes she’s not the only one feeling it.
The cheerfully loud voice of the girl working behind the counter cuts through her reverie. “Lando, your order is ready.”
Sara is still laughing when Michael reaches her, an iced tea in one hand and a bottle of water in the other. “Lando?”
He’s grinning like an errant schoolboy, although she definitely doesn’t remember seeing any boys like him when she was at school. “You like that one?” His grin broadens as he sits down beside her. “I’ll have to remember to use it on my brother.”
She takes the iced tea from his hand, almost jumping when his fingers slide against hers. “Star Wars fans?”
“Wasn’t everyone?” He takes a long sip of his water before leaning back in his chair, one leg casually crossed over the opposite knee. His tie has been loosened, something he must have down while he was at the counter, the top button undone. She remembers her earlier mental slideshow involving her own hands doing just that, and a rush of heat washes over her. “Only the original trilogy, though.”
She laughs, amusement mingling with attraction and turning it into something warm and vital, pressing outwards against her skin. “Of course.”
He raises his bottle of water to her. “You too?”
He obviously approves, and it’s ridiculous, she knows, but she can’t resist the urge to impress him a little more. “I had a whole shelf of action figures.”
His eyes light up, and she can’t help thinking that inside every adult, there’s a child waiting to be appeased. “Is that so?” He narrows his gaze, as if suddenly doubting her word. “What was your favourite?”
It’s been years since she thought about the toys that had once thrilled her so much, but this is a question she can answer. “Uh, the Millennium Falcon model, I guess.”
“Ah, the Holy Grail.” He snaps his fingers, shaking his head at her, his teeth white against his tan as he grins. “I don’t know if we can be friends anymore.”
He’s teasing her, and it feels good, but she’s suddenly acutely aware that a child who spent so much time in the foster system probably wouldn’t have had many toys, let alone the coveted collector's item they’re discussing. In an instant, her side of the conversation feels less like flirting and more like boasting. “I think it’s still in storage somewhere,” she tells him, and his eyes widen.
“Are you kidding me?”
“I’m pretty sure.” If it is in storage, it’s with her mother’s belongings that her father couldn’t bear to throw away, and that’s not a topic of conversation she wants to broach tonight.
“Well, if you ever wanted to make a few bucks, you’d get a mint for it on eBay.”
She chuckles. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Of course,” he says, a smirk tugging at his lips, “if you wanted to make it a private sale instead, I’d be more than happy to take it off your hands.”
The butterflies in the pit of her stomach, having been lazily somersaulting for the last hour or so, promptly commence an energetic aerobic routine. “I’ll keep that in mind, too.”
Grinning, he reaches a hand upwards, rubbing his palm over his scalp in a quick, almost nervous gesture, and her gaze is drawn once again to the faded scars beneath the prickle of his dark hair. She hadn’t noticed them until he’d stood beneath the gleaming lights at the counter, but now that she knows they’re there, they’re easy to find. To her consternation, he notices she’s looking. Before she can drop her gaze, he taps the scar closest to his temple with one long finger and gives her a quick smile. “If my brother were here, he’d tell you that’s where I had the devil horns removed.”
“I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to stare-”
“It’s okay, really.”
His tone is light, his body language relaxed. Gathering up her courage, she takes the opening he’s given her. “Impressive battle scars.”
He smiles. “I had a health scare a while back."
She's a doctor, dealing with illness, injury and death on a regular basis. Her blood shouldn't suddenly feel chilled at his words, but it does. "Nothing too serious, I hope?"
"Do you know anything about hypothalamic hamartomas?”
“Not a lot.” She tries to remember everything she knows about the tumor he’s named. To her dismay, it’s not very much. “It’s benign, I know that much.”
He nods. “Benign, but very invasive and very tricky to remove.”
She looks at the perfectly formed, tiny circles imprinted on his scalp, and she wants to trace them with her own fingers. “When were you diagnosed?”
“Just over a year ago.”
She looks at him. He’s the picture of glowing good health, with perfect teeth, clear eyes, excellent skin tone. The thought that he’d had major neurosurgery only twelve months earlier doesn’t seem possible. “When did you have the surgery?”
“A month after I was diagnosed.” He meets her gaze steadily. “I wanted to wait, explore a few different avenues, but Lincoln didn’t think that was a very good idea.” He brushes his fingertips over the scar once more, then darts a quick smile at her. “Three weeks later, I was back at work, no more headaches or nosebleeds or wanting to eat whole pies in a single sitting, so I guess he was right.”
She smiles back, not bothering to analyse the relief she feels over the health of a man she’s only just met. Analysing means over-thinking, and she’s determined not to over-think anything tonight. “Sounds like you were a model patient.”
He snorts with amusement, as if there are many stories he could tell her, none of which are flattering. “Well, I don’t know about that.”
“And you’re okay now?”
“Never felt better.” He reaches out to pick up his bottle of water, then settles back in his chair. “Tell me more about Fox River?”
Recognising a request for a change of subject when she hears one, she does. She tells him how a casual - or perhaps not that casual, considering Brad Bellick - remark at an AA meeting led to her working at Fox River. She tells him about Katie, how grateful she is to have another woman on the staff, especially one who has become a good friend. She tells him about Henry Pope, the man who gave her a job not as a favour to her father, but because he actually believed she could make a difference. Thinking of his passion for architecture, she tells him about the ornate cornices that line ceilings of the prison’s hallways, and the sense of both history and hopelessness that hits her every time she steps through the main gates and sees the words engraved above the archway that implore the inmates to ‘make time serve you’.
She swallows the last mouthful of her iced tea, and decides she’s had enough of Fox River for one night. “What were you doing with your napkin at the reception?”
He blinks at the sudden change of topic, then smiles at her. “Origami.”
“Do you do that often?”
He gives her a look of mock indignation. “You got something against origami?”
“Not at all, it’s just-” How can she put this? It’s not something I expected to see a very attractive man doing at a formal dinner? Maybe not. “It was unusual, that’s all.”
He’s smiling again, reaching down to pluck one of the napkins from the small coffee table. “We learned how to make a crane in grade school, and when I realised I was really good at it, I kept doing it.” As he talks, he’s folding the white paper napkin, his fingers flying. “I taught Lincoln how to make them, and it became a family thing.” He glances up at her, as if to make sure she’s watching his demonstration. “He used to leave one in my room when he’d come home late or leave early in the morning, just so I’d find it when I woke up.” He glances up at her again, and in his wistful expression, she sees something of the young boy he’d once been. “Just so I’d know he was looking out for me, no matter what else was going on.”
A pang of tenderness tightens her throat. “Some people live a long time without ever knowing that feeling.”
“I know.” His expression is one of complete absorption, just as it had been when she’d watched him during the wedding reception, and she thinks of what it would be like to have that single-minded focus directed towards her.
Her mouth goes dry at the thought.
“Paper napkins aren’t the best material to work with,” he murmurs as a perfectly formed white paper crane suddenly appears in his grasp, making a mockery of his words, “but you get the idea.” He holds out his hand, the small paper bird dangling from his fingertips, and she instinctively puts out her own hand. He drops the crane gently into her palm, then smiles into her eyes. “That one’s on the house.”
Several dozen emotions - none of them simple - are clattering around inside her as she carefully tucks the crane into her purse. “Thank you.”
It’s late, and maybe she should think about finding a taxi, but instead she has a mug of peppermint tea (iced coffee for him this time), Michael cheerfully ignoring her insistence that it was her turn to buy the drinks. The crowd around them ebbs and flows, students with laptops gradually replaced by those seeking one last pit stop before heading home after leaving the various bars and clubs in the area. The faintest trace of stale cigarette smoke and booze is now threaded through the scent of coffee and cinnamon; she remembers those particular scents clinging to her own clothes and skin all too well.
Maybe she should have done so, given how much he’s shared with her, but apart from the passing mention of her AA meetings, she doesn’t go into any further details about her recovery. To her relief, Michael doesn’t ask for any. She’s not ashamed of what she’s achieved, but she doesn’t want to have a discussion about morphine, not tonight.
Michael listens attentively when she talks, asking questions every now and then, questions that feel more like genuine curiosity, rather than an attempt to simply make conversation. Leaving the topic of Fox River behind them, they move onto television, books and movies. To her complete lack of surprise, he likes the same comedies she does, although he displays a disappointingly clichéd attitude towards some of the more female-orientated movies she likes. Still, she thinks as she tries to keep from staring at the tanned hollow of his throat exposed by his unbuttoned shirt collar, nobody's perfect.
As they talk, she can feel her whole body relaxing, pleasantly sinking into the depths of the comfortable coffee house armchair. His voice is rich and melodious, almost soothing, and she enjoys listening to his questions far more than the sound of her own voice. When a yawn threatens to crack her jaw in the middle of a sentence, though, she suddenly realises she might have mistaken relaxation for weariness. She looks at her watch, and literally feels her jaw drop.
“What’s up?”
She looks at the man sitting opposite her. “It’s almost three o'clock.”
He blinks, then looks at his own watch. “Wow.” He lifts his head, his gaze meeting hers. “We should go, I guess.”
The obvious reluctance in his voice makes it easier to face the inevitable end of this time together. “Probably a good idea.” She smiles at him. “You’ve got to do some mentoring tomorrow, after all.”
He hesitates, then gives her a hopeful smile. “Is there any chance I can persuade you to let me drive you home?”
Maybe she should play coy or hard to get or any number of irritating mind games, but her gut instinct tells her that not only will this man deliver her to her door safe and sound, but also that if she refuses, he will wait with her - without complaining - until she has tracked down that elusive creature, the late night taxi. “I can hardly protest that you’d be going out of your way, can I?” she quips as she gathers up her wrap and her purse.
He gets to his feet, his gaze sweeping over her in a way that has her hands fumbling with her belongings. “No, you cannot.”
“In that case, that’s most kind of you, good sir.”
He chuckles at her reply, stepping back to let her negotiate her way past the wooden table and out of the little corner where they’ve been ensconced for over four hours. “Seems the least I could do, seeing as I forced you to stay out way past your bedtime.”
There is no innuendo in his words whatsoever, but she feels the blood rush to her face all the same. When she turns to look at him, he’s close enough for her to feel the warmth of his body and smell the spicy tang of his aftershave. His eyes darken as his gaze meets hers, and she abruptly feels as though all the air is being sucked from the room. They’re standing in the middle of a brightly lit coffee shop, surrounded by people inhaling brownies and coffee, and all she can think of is how much she wants him to kiss her. “Not to mention making me miss out on a ride home from my dad,” she finally says in a voice that sounds as though it’s struggling to make itself heard.
She sees his throat work as he swallows, then he nods, his hand grazing her elbow in an all-too-fleeting touch. “That too, of course.”
It’s something of a relief to step into the fresh air, the heat of the previous day forgotten in the predawn cool. She drapes her wrap around her shoulders, more for something to do with her hands than the cooler temperature. Beside her, Michael is silent, his hands in his pockets as they walk. It’s a silence that blossoms between them as they walk toward his car and, as she feared she might as soon as she had some breathing space, she starts thinking too much.
He hasn’t asked for her number, but there’s no reason she can’t ask for his. He hasn’t mentioned anything about seeing her again, but he obviously enjoyed being with her this evening. The memory of being in his arms while they were dancing is etched into every inch of her skin, but apart from a few polite brushes of his hand against her arm, he hasn’t touched her since they left the dance floor.
He unlocks the car, opens the door for her, then steps back to give her room to get in. It all gives her a feeling of déjà vu, although this time she’s no longer worried about running out of things to say to him, but running out of time in which to say them.
He slides into the driver’s seat and shuts the door behind him, creating a quiet cocoon around them, then looks at her expectantly. Wishing she was better at this part of the dating game, she swallows hard, suddenly lost for words. “Uh, do you need directions?”
He gives her a smile. “No, I’m good.” He starts the ignition, and a moment later they’re gliding smoothly through the sparse early morning traffic. “Although you might need to tell me which house is yours once we get onto Van Leer.”
She smiles back. “1616, and I’ll have you know it’s an apartment block, not a house.”
Silence settles over them once more, and it’s a relief when he reaches out and flicks on the car radio. One of the local stations - the kind that plays what Katie calls ‘acid wash rock’ - blares into life. As if pre-empting her reaction, Michael offers her a sheepish grin. “I’ve got some CDs if you’d prefer.”
“No, it’s fine.” She tilts her head to one side as she listens to the song playing, then looks at him. “God, the last time I heard this song was at my prom.”
His long fingers are tapping the steering wheel in time with the beat. “Did your dad insist on inspecting your date beforehand?”
She feels a blush creeping up the back of her neck. “Uh, yes.”
He laughs quietly under his breath. “I can imagine.”
The conversation meanders through several subjects for the next fifteen minutes, discussing their respective CD collections - as she suspected, his is alarmingly eclectic - and the kids he’d be seeing at the shelter that weekend. When the Audi finally turns onto her street, she’s assailed by a sudden rush of panic.
I don’t want this to end.
She directs him to her apartment building, halfway along the street on the right, and this time she notices the free parking space at the same time he does. He parks the car with unsettling speed and accuracy, then turns to her, the words leaving his lips in a quiet rush. “May I walk you to the door?”
Her stomach flips over, her hands curling around the seat belt strap she’s in the middle of unfastening. “Sure.”
She knows now that he likes to open doors, but it feels far too awkward sitting in the car, waiting to be released. It’s no mean feat to maintain your dignity while climbing out of an Audi wearing a strapless, knee-length dress, but she manages to make it work. She can’t help admiring his old-school etiquette, though, and gives him a warm smile when he joins her on the pavement. “Thank you again for driving me home.”
He looks at her, his normally vivid eyes dark in the half-light, his voice dropping to little more than a lush whisper. “My pleasure.”
She’s not in the least bit cold, but a fragile shiver dances down her spine, like cool hands on hot skin. “Uh, I’m just here,” she stumbles over the words, her arm feeling like limp spaghetti as she gestures toward her nearby building.
He falls into step beside her, and a few seconds later, when the spike of her right heel wobbles on the uneven concrete pathway, his hand curls around her elbow, steadying her in a way that manages to have completely the opposite effect. His hand is warm, the feel of his thumb resting in the crook of her elbow making her feel as though her arm has been dusted in itching powder.
He says nothing as they walk down the narrow pathway to the security door that leads into the foyer of her apartment complex. When they reach the door, he drops his hand, and she mourns the loss of contact. The small light above the door casts a pale yellow glow over them, and she can’t help regretting that the bulb isn’t blown as it so often is. They’ve been alone in a crowd all evening, and now that they’re finally truly alone, she feels as though they’re standing in a spotlight.
Realising with a start that she’s supposed to be finding her keys, she snaps open her purse to do just that. “I had a really good time tonight,” she says without looking at him, wanting to fill the thick void of anticipation that seems to be humming between them, and immediately wants to smack herself for resorting to such a tired old line.
“Me too.” He leans against the wall, a casual pose to match his next casual words. “I suppose you’ll be going to the Governor’s house next weekend for the usual 4th July fireworks shindig.”
She can’t remember the last time she heard the word shindig in everyday conversation, and hearing it now makes her smile. “Not necessarily.” She still can’t see her keys, confounded that they could elude her in such a small purse, although the addition of an origami crane might have complicated the issue. Keeping her hands busy does nothing to distract her from the implications of his question, but she’s careful not to jump to any conclusions. Abandoning the half-hearted search for her keys, she looks up to find him watching her with an intensity that makes her want to join him in leaning against the wall. “Why do you ask?”
“My brother and his girlfriend are having a barbecue on Saturday.” He hesitates, making her hold her breath, then smiles. “Would you like to come?”
Her heart does an odd little two-step, and she has the feeling her smile matches his. “Are you asking me on a date?”
He grins, looking decidedly relieved. “Yes.”
A large part of her wants to say yes in a very loud voice, but a smaller, more perverse part of her gives into the urge to tease him. “You don’t waste any time, do you?”
“We’ve lived in the same city for thirty years and I’ve only just met you.” His gaze drops to her mouth, as light as a butterfly’s wings, then lifts to her eyes once more. “I’m just trying to make up for lost time.”
“I would love to come, but first I have to tell you something,” she hears herself say in a rush, as though the words will no longer be kept still. “Something I didn’t mention tonight because -” She stops, her gut instinct telling her to not waste time making excuses but simply tell him. She has no idea what’s going to happen between them, but she needs him to know this one thing. If it changes his perception of her for the worse, then at least she will know now, tonight, before she lets herself fall any further. “I was an addict four years ago, and I’m an addict now.” She forces herself to meet his gaze steadily, despite her fear at what she might see in his eyes. “I’m in recovery now and I’ve been clean for four years come Tuesday, but I will always be an addict.”
He smiles, his gaze clear and warm. “Congratulations.” Confused, she stares at him. Still smiling, he reaches out and takes the purse from her hands, carefully setting it on the ground beside his feet. “That makes Tuesday your fourth anniversary, right?”
Oh, God. She doesn’t remember moving toward him, but there seems to be considerably less distance between them now than there had been when they’d first arrived at her door. “Don’t you want to know why I checked into rehab?”
“Not if you don’t feel ready to tell me.” He touches her face, his palm soft against her cheek, his fingertips grazing the curve of her ear. “When you are ready, I’ll be all ears.”
She wants to smile, but his touch is making her feel as though an invisible band is tightening around her chest. She wants to move, but she feels strangely immobile, almost frozen on the spot despite the heat that seems to have infiltrated her blood and her bones. She wants to say his name, but there’s no time, because he dips his head and brushes his lips against hers, once, then twice, a maddeningly light caress that leaves her restless and wanting things she normally would hesitate to even imagine. He draws away slightly, the puff of his breath warm against her lips, his gaze searching her face, waiting. Waiting for permission, absolution, an invitation.
Waiting for her.
She touches his chest, her hand splayed flat over his heart, and feels the heat of his skin through his shirt. When she curls her hand around his tie, he gives her a silently imploring glance that makes her feel invincible, and she lifts her face to his.
He leans back, settling himself against the wall in one unhurried motion, taking her with him as he kisses her again, and this time, it’s not a light caress. This kiss is a deliberate, languid tasting of her mouth, his tongue teasing her bottom lip with a delicate precision that has her fingers digging into the firm flesh beneath his cotton shirt. She breathes a sigh against his mouth, her body shifting, seeking, finding, her breasts brushing against his chest, her hand dropping to curl around his hipbone.
He makes a rough sound in the back of his throat, then she feels the weight of his arm around her waist, gently pulling her closer. She lets herself savour the last moment of anticipation, then she opens her mouth to his kiss, drinking in the taste of him, coffee and sugar and salt and heat. His tongue brushes hers, a lazy, lush tangle of slick heat, and the thrum of arousal blossoms into life low in her belly, heavy between her thighs and the tips of her breasts. One lean thigh slides between hers, and a shock of pure pleasure rips through her at the feel of him against her, the thick ridge of his erection pressing hard against the hollow ache between her legs, the heat flashing from his skin to hers despite the many layers of wedding guest finery.
Acting solely on instinct, she gently bites at his bottom lip, delighting in the shudder that she feels ripple through his body. A long moment later, he lifts his head, his mouth looking as tender as hers feels, and gazes at her as though he’s just discovered a precious, long-forgotten artefact of the architectural world. He exhales shakily, then rests his forehead against hers. His skin is damp with sweat, but she doesn’t care. “I’m going to need to call you several times between now and next Saturday,” he murmurs, the words tiny whispers of warmth against her swollen mouth.
It’s hard to think when his hands are on her hips and she’s pressed against him from shoulder to knee and she can feel every single beat of his heart. “Is that right?”
“Mmmm.” Lifting one hand from her waist, he brushes back the hair from her bare shoulder, tracing the curve of her neck with his fingertip. If she had the energy, she thinks, she’d blush. “But that could prove difficult if I don’t have your number.”
She draws back enough to see his face, then rubs her thumb over his lips, smiling at the smudge of lipstick at the corner of his mouth. “I don’t have a pen.”
“Just tell me.” His smile, now lipstick-free, is almost a smirk. “I’ll remember it.”
She wonders if she should also tell him that the feel of his mouth on hers is the closest she’s come to feeling high since she got sober, then decides she’ll save that for another day. Another night.
Putting her lips to his ear, she recites her phone number twice, his hand tightening on her hip with each new digit. When she’s done, she shifts backward in his embrace, knowing she needs to be alone on the other side of that door soon, or she will end up rushing into something that she would much rather savour. “You got that?”
The tanned column of his throat works as he swallows. “Yes.” He closes his eyes for a few seconds, then pushes himself away from the wall, gently turning her towards the door. “You’d better go in.” Picking up her purse from the ground, he retrieves her keys, and presses them into her hand.
Her palms are damp, but she manages to open the security door. Once she’s gripping the handle, she tucks her purse beneath her arm and turns to face him. “If you do happen to forget the number-”
He touches her one last time, smoothing his palm down her arm from elbow to wrist, his fingers dancing lightly over the hammering pulse beneath her skin, and her knees almost buckle at the deceptively chaste touch. “I won’t.”
She catches his hand in hers, threading her fingers between his tightly. Dangerous, she knows, and all too easy to draw him inside, to not let him vanish into the first gray light of dawn. “If you do, though? I’m in the book.”
His hand tightens around hers, then he lifts it to his lips, pressing a hard kiss to her knuckles. She has time to commit the feel of his mouth on her skin to memory, then he’s dropping her hand and stepping away from her. “Goodnight, Sara.”
She smiles at him, knowing that this has been the strangest, and most intoxicating evening, she’s had in a very, very long time. Wondering how it’s possible to be so tired and yet so exhilarated at the same time, she gives him a tiny wave as she opens the door, unable to resist the urge to part on a suitably unconventional note. “Goodnight, Phineas.”
His eyes light up, his smile almost stretching from ear to ear. He takes one half-step toward her, sending her pulse rocketing skyward once again, then he seems to give himself a mental shake. “I’ll call you.”
She leans her head against the edge of the now open door, deciding that playing hard to get is overrated. “I hope so.”
He takes several slow steps backward, his eyes still locked with hers, as if he’s trying to memorise the sight of her. When he reaches the pathway to the sidewalk, he gives her a final wave and, as he turns away, she can see he’s still grinning.
The next half hour passes in a slow blur of familiar ritual that utterly fails to dislodge the feeling of her feet not quite touching the ground. She shuts the security door behind her, reaching her own front door a moment later. Shoes kicked off, purse and wrap dumped onto the end of her bed, earrings dropped into the bowl on her bedroom dresser. Dress stripped off and draped over the chair in the corner of her room, then into the bathroom to wash away her makeup and clean her teeth. Everything is very ordinary, a litany of tasks she does every single day, almost without thinking, but she feels as though she’s doing each and every one for the first time.
When she finally slips into bed, she relishes at the feel of the cool cotton sheets against her too-warm skin. Her summer pyjamas make her feel both too constricted and too exposed, every inch of her body oddly sensitive, as though it’s been charged with static electricity. Her air-conditioner still isn’t working, but she doesn’t care. Rolling onto her side, she hugs her spare pillow to her chest and allows herself to wallow in the memory of the last few hours.
Burying her smile in the pillow in her arms, she replays their kiss - God, that kiss - over and over in her head, the same spasm of desire twisting through her belly every time. When she finally falls asleep, though, her last thought is of the small paper bird tucked into her purse, a fragile token that feels almost like a promise.
~*~