"Prodigal Father", for rosie_spleen
Title: Prodigal Father
Author: To be revealed
Rating: PG
Category: AU, General, Het
Characters: Michael/Sara, Frank Tancredi, Lincoln, LJ, mentions of Jane and Cooper Green
Requested by: rosie_spleen
Summary: The last time she saw her father, he was being carried away in a body bag.
Author’s Notes: rosie_spleen asked for Season 4 Michael and Sara, Michael finds out Frank is alive. I’ve jumped forward in time just a smidge. Prompts were tears, laughter and champagne.
Prodigal Father
The last time she saw her father, he was being carried away in a body bag.
The guard had found him, they said, hanging from the archway in his study. He hadn’t been gone for longer than ten minutes. It was really too bad.
My father is not a suicidal man.
~
She remembers the sourness of her mouth that day; the bile had lingered at the base of her throat, threatening, teasing, as she sat on the windowsill, tears streaming down her face. The fluff from the Kleenex had stuck to her hands, the remnants of which she would find even days later clinging to the fabric of her pants. She remembers the shock and knowing that none of it had made any sense. That he couldn’t have killed himself, couldn’t have taken his own life. How the words them and murder had echoed through her head until she thought it might explode.
If only she had known.
To say that her relationship with her father had been complicated would be an understatement. Living a life of privilege had been difficult, losing her mother at twelve years old had been hard, but it was the day-to-day knowledge that whatever she did she would never measure up that had been the most painful. There’s a twistedness to her grief, a duality of sorts, and no matter how many times she tries to separate or compartmentalize or make sense of how she feels she still ends up feeling like a child. A child who no matter how hurt or angry just wants to make her daddy proud.
Being with Michael helps. Finally being free to plan and dream and live the lives they never thought they’d be able to helps to heal the part of her soul previously so void of hope. The pain is still visible in his eyes-her pain, their pain-but slowly they are making a life apart from the running and the fighting, and the death.
They get that scuba shop on the beach, and a small house down the road from Lincoln and LJ. They eat papayas every morning and make love every night. For the first time in her life, she feels complete. She still fights with herself every day-not to give up, not to give in, to keep on moving-but it’s becoming easier to live with her past, with her flaws, and the fact that as far as Michael’s concerned she always measures up, gives her a reason every day to stay sober.
The girl who once played on yachts drinking champagne and eating caviar is quite changed.
The day they get the call is as normal as the one before it. They’re down by the shop, she doing inventory, Michael checking the books, Lincoln and LJ arguing affectionately in the foreground. She hears Michael push back his chair, then his footsteps as he comes up behind her at the shelves, wrapping his arms around her waist and planting a lingering kiss at the back of her neck. She leans into his arms, closing her eyes, the familiar scent of sunscreen and sweet fruit around her, and she’s grateful. She knows this could have ended a hundred different ways, but it didn’t and she finally feels as though she can breathe.
They hear the phone ring from the front of the shop; Lincoln and LJ are too engrossed in their banter to notice. Michael squeezes her hand as he leaves to answer it, and absentmindedly, she turns back to her task. It’s not until she notices the change in Michael’s tone, a rising panic she recognizes from long ago, that she turns towards him. He’s watching her as he speaks into the phone, his eyes glistening. She walks towards him and he simultaneously reaches out for her hand. His palm is damp. She doesn’t have to move any closer to know that his heart is pounding within his chest.
The next few minutes come in flashes. She hears the click of the receiver. She feels Michael pulling her into his arms firmly, his body radiating a tension she hasn’t felt in almost two years. His one hand holds her head to his chest, the other rubs circles on her back; his breath is raspy and low. When he starts to speak it’s like she already knows what he’s going to say. She feels as though she’s underwater in a tunnel somewhere far below the earth. Oxygen comes in spurts, adrenaline pumps through her chest.
And she listens.
Your father is alive. The Company. Bruce. Dead. He thought you were too. Cooper Green. Jane. He’s on the next flight.
She feels like she’s going to be sick.
She loosens her grip from the back of Michael’s shirt. She can’t look him in the eye. Not now; not yet. It’s only when Lincoln and LJ finally glance in their direction that she realizes the moaning and gasping she’s hearing are coming from her own voice.
She runs, practically sprints into the washroom and lunges herself at the toilet. Minutes pass and she hears Michael enter and close the door. Without a word he gingerly sits behind her, legs straddling hers and wipes the sweat from her forehead. Her ponytail has come loose and the gentleness with which she feels him tuck the tendrils of hair behind her ears is almost enough to break her.
“It’s okay.”
“It’s not.” She turns to face him.
She can’t imagine what they’ve done to him, what he’s suffered because of her, because of them. “It’s not okay.”
She had imagined many scenarios where he just appeared somewhere in the distance suddenly alive. It’s not like she hadn’t thought of it, hadn’t dreamed about it. But she had never suspected. Never known. And what the hell kind of daughter did that make her? After all, she had come back from the dead. She had survived. How could she have just assumed that she was the only one?
“I should have known.”
“You couldn’t have.” He’s stoking her cheek, urging her to look at him. “I didn’t. When it was you, I should have known, and I didn’t. You didn’t do this Sara. This is not your fault.”
The tears come in waves, hard at first, great sobs that wrack her body as Michael holds her. He’s whispering in her ear. She hears him tell her that he loves her, that it’s going to be okay, that this wasn’t her fault. She’s thinks back to when Bruce was killed, when she thought she had lost yet another father. How angry she had been then-with Bruce, with Frank, with herself. And helpless-she had been so helpless.
Eventually her tears subside and her breath evens. They sit, she in his lap with his arms tightly wrapped around her, and they do not speak for a very long time. The shock is beginning to melt away; she can tell because she’s starting to feel the pressure of his body, smell the scent of his skin. When she’s finally able to look up she finds him watching her, and like every time she catches him, it doesn’t fail to amaze her how much she can see in his eyes.
She kisses him softly, wraps her arms around his neck, and without hesitation he folds her into him, giving her back what he knows she so greatly needs. She had once told him that he was all she had left; now she knows that’s not true. Having what’s left would mean that she’d lost, that she’d come in behind-that she’d failed-and there’s nothing failed about them.
“He’s alive.” She whispers the words and closes her eyes at the sound of them.
“He’s alive, Sara.”
The knot previously sitting like a rock in her stomach begins to evaporate. She feels it slowly shrinking away and in its place is a surge of relief. She’s crying again. Her face is wet with tears, but this time they are not tears of guilt or shame or sadness, but of hope. And of love.
And laughter.
Finally, laughter.
~
It’s almost sunset when she sees him. She’s at the side of the house taking down the linen hanging from the line, the scent of Panamanian sun and water wafting through the breeze. Michael is out back with the fish on the grill, Lincoln and LJ having made themselves scarce. There’s a quiet swell of anticipation. Having spent the past few hours in compatible silence has done nothing to help pass the time.
Two sheets still hang tangled together at the bottom, their middles billowing like opposite sails of a ship against the red of the sun. Between them, still in the distance, she sees the figure of a man.
She watches for a while as the image comes closer, her heart in her throat. He’s wearing a suit, his socks and shoes held in one hand, his pale skin appearing oddly out of place against the colour of the sand. Just then she hears the side door open and slam shut; she feels Michael beside her, his hand in the small of her back.
The man hears the door too, and looks up. Anxiety turns to elation-she can see it on his face-and before she knows what she’s doing, she’s handing off the laundry to Michael and running down the beach.
He meets her halfway, dropping the shoes and socks and reaching for her. His face is streaked with tears, his words incoherent, and his voice almost foreign.
She holds on for dear life, gripping the lapels of his suit, sobbing onto the front of his shirt.
“I’m so sorry Dad.”
He’s shaking his head, and holds her face in his palms so she can’t look away. “No. I’m sorry Sara. And I am so proud of you.”
She chokes on her laugh and throws herself into his arms again. He’s laughing now too, saying something smart about the heat, and they walk as they did when she was a child: side by side, his hand in the delicate place between her shoulder blades, steadying her and guiding her.
He’s alive.
And so is she.
-The End-
Author: To be revealed
Rating: PG
Category: AU, General, Het
Characters: Michael/Sara, Frank Tancredi, Lincoln, LJ, mentions of Jane and Cooper Green
Requested by: rosie_spleen
Summary: The last time she saw her father, he was being carried away in a body bag.
Author’s Notes: rosie_spleen asked for Season 4 Michael and Sara, Michael finds out Frank is alive. I’ve jumped forward in time just a smidge. Prompts were tears, laughter and champagne.
Prodigal Father
The last time she saw her father, he was being carried away in a body bag.
The guard had found him, they said, hanging from the archway in his study. He hadn’t been gone for longer than ten minutes. It was really too bad.
My father is not a suicidal man.
~
She remembers the sourness of her mouth that day; the bile had lingered at the base of her throat, threatening, teasing, as she sat on the windowsill, tears streaming down her face. The fluff from the Kleenex had stuck to her hands, the remnants of which she would find even days later clinging to the fabric of her pants. She remembers the shock and knowing that none of it had made any sense. That he couldn’t have killed himself, couldn’t have taken his own life. How the words them and murder had echoed through her head until she thought it might explode.
If only she had known.
To say that her relationship with her father had been complicated would be an understatement. Living a life of privilege had been difficult, losing her mother at twelve years old had been hard, but it was the day-to-day knowledge that whatever she did she would never measure up that had been the most painful. There’s a twistedness to her grief, a duality of sorts, and no matter how many times she tries to separate or compartmentalize or make sense of how she feels she still ends up feeling like a child. A child who no matter how hurt or angry just wants to make her daddy proud.
Being with Michael helps. Finally being free to plan and dream and live the lives they never thought they’d be able to helps to heal the part of her soul previously so void of hope. The pain is still visible in his eyes-her pain, their pain-but slowly they are making a life apart from the running and the fighting, and the death.
They get that scuba shop on the beach, and a small house down the road from Lincoln and LJ. They eat papayas every morning and make love every night. For the first time in her life, she feels complete. She still fights with herself every day-not to give up, not to give in, to keep on moving-but it’s becoming easier to live with her past, with her flaws, and the fact that as far as Michael’s concerned she always measures up, gives her a reason every day to stay sober.
The girl who once played on yachts drinking champagne and eating caviar is quite changed.
The day they get the call is as normal as the one before it. They’re down by the shop, she doing inventory, Michael checking the books, Lincoln and LJ arguing affectionately in the foreground. She hears Michael push back his chair, then his footsteps as he comes up behind her at the shelves, wrapping his arms around her waist and planting a lingering kiss at the back of her neck. She leans into his arms, closing her eyes, the familiar scent of sunscreen and sweet fruit around her, and she’s grateful. She knows this could have ended a hundred different ways, but it didn’t and she finally feels as though she can breathe.
They hear the phone ring from the front of the shop; Lincoln and LJ are too engrossed in their banter to notice. Michael squeezes her hand as he leaves to answer it, and absentmindedly, she turns back to her task. It’s not until she notices the change in Michael’s tone, a rising panic she recognizes from long ago, that she turns towards him. He’s watching her as he speaks into the phone, his eyes glistening. She walks towards him and he simultaneously reaches out for her hand. His palm is damp. She doesn’t have to move any closer to know that his heart is pounding within his chest.
The next few minutes come in flashes. She hears the click of the receiver. She feels Michael pulling her into his arms firmly, his body radiating a tension she hasn’t felt in almost two years. His one hand holds her head to his chest, the other rubs circles on her back; his breath is raspy and low. When he starts to speak it’s like she already knows what he’s going to say. She feels as though she’s underwater in a tunnel somewhere far below the earth. Oxygen comes in spurts, adrenaline pumps through her chest.
And she listens.
Your father is alive. The Company. Bruce. Dead. He thought you were too. Cooper Green. Jane. He’s on the next flight.
She feels like she’s going to be sick.
She loosens her grip from the back of Michael’s shirt. She can’t look him in the eye. Not now; not yet. It’s only when Lincoln and LJ finally glance in their direction that she realizes the moaning and gasping she’s hearing are coming from her own voice.
She runs, practically sprints into the washroom and lunges herself at the toilet. Minutes pass and she hears Michael enter and close the door. Without a word he gingerly sits behind her, legs straddling hers and wipes the sweat from her forehead. Her ponytail has come loose and the gentleness with which she feels him tuck the tendrils of hair behind her ears is almost enough to break her.
“It’s okay.”
“It’s not.” She turns to face him.
She can’t imagine what they’ve done to him, what he’s suffered because of her, because of them. “It’s not okay.”
She had imagined many scenarios where he just appeared somewhere in the distance suddenly alive. It’s not like she hadn’t thought of it, hadn’t dreamed about it. But she had never suspected. Never known. And what the hell kind of daughter did that make her? After all, she had come back from the dead. She had survived. How could she have just assumed that she was the only one?
“I should have known.”
“You couldn’t have.” He’s stoking her cheek, urging her to look at him. “I didn’t. When it was you, I should have known, and I didn’t. You didn’t do this Sara. This is not your fault.”
The tears come in waves, hard at first, great sobs that wrack her body as Michael holds her. He’s whispering in her ear. She hears him tell her that he loves her, that it’s going to be okay, that this wasn’t her fault. She’s thinks back to when Bruce was killed, when she thought she had lost yet another father. How angry she had been then-with Bruce, with Frank, with herself. And helpless-she had been so helpless.
Eventually her tears subside and her breath evens. They sit, she in his lap with his arms tightly wrapped around her, and they do not speak for a very long time. The shock is beginning to melt away; she can tell because she’s starting to feel the pressure of his body, smell the scent of his skin. When she’s finally able to look up she finds him watching her, and like every time she catches him, it doesn’t fail to amaze her how much she can see in his eyes.
She kisses him softly, wraps her arms around his neck, and without hesitation he folds her into him, giving her back what he knows she so greatly needs. She had once told him that he was all she had left; now she knows that’s not true. Having what’s left would mean that she’d lost, that she’d come in behind-that she’d failed-and there’s nothing failed about them.
“He’s alive.” She whispers the words and closes her eyes at the sound of them.
“He’s alive, Sara.”
The knot previously sitting like a rock in her stomach begins to evaporate. She feels it slowly shrinking away and in its place is a surge of relief. She’s crying again. Her face is wet with tears, but this time they are not tears of guilt or shame or sadness, but of hope. And of love.
And laughter.
Finally, laughter.
~
It’s almost sunset when she sees him. She’s at the side of the house taking down the linen hanging from the line, the scent of Panamanian sun and water wafting through the breeze. Michael is out back with the fish on the grill, Lincoln and LJ having made themselves scarce. There’s a quiet swell of anticipation. Having spent the past few hours in compatible silence has done nothing to help pass the time.
Two sheets still hang tangled together at the bottom, their middles billowing like opposite sails of a ship against the red of the sun. Between them, still in the distance, she sees the figure of a man.
She watches for a while as the image comes closer, her heart in her throat. He’s wearing a suit, his socks and shoes held in one hand, his pale skin appearing oddly out of place against the colour of the sand. Just then she hears the side door open and slam shut; she feels Michael beside her, his hand in the small of her back.
The man hears the door too, and looks up. Anxiety turns to elation-she can see it on his face-and before she knows what she’s doing, she’s handing off the laundry to Michael and running down the beach.
He meets her halfway, dropping the shoes and socks and reaching for her. His face is streaked with tears, his words incoherent, and his voice almost foreign.
She holds on for dear life, gripping the lapels of his suit, sobbing onto the front of his shirt.
“I’m so sorry Dad.”
He’s shaking his head, and holds her face in his palms so she can’t look away. “No. I’m sorry Sara. And I am so proud of you.”
She chokes on her laugh and throws herself into his arms again. He’s laughing now too, saying something smart about the heat, and they walk as they did when she was a child: side by side, his hand in the delicate place between her shoulder blades, steadying her and guiding her.
He’s alive.
And so is she.
-The End-