The Last Man on Earth
Title: The Last Man on Earth
Author: wrldpossibility
Characters: Sara Tancredi, Michael Scofield
Word Count: 300 (Exactly. Precisely. I guess it is possible, even for me.)
Rating: PG
Spoilers: mention of 4.11
Summary: He has been so many things to her, in such a short time.
Author's Note: scribblecat informs me this will be my 300th post here at LJ. Who knew I had so much to say? So to mark the (not so) momentous occasion, I wrote a 300-word drabble about these two people I seem to enjoy writing fic about, you know, occasionally. *g* This comes from the dock scene of 4.11, Quiet Riot. The title/concept is based on an observation about Sara Tancredi that SWC has noted in the past.
When she finds him, he’s standing alone, staring out at the chopped-green water of the harbor. She approaches silently, her feet padding the wooden slats of the dock in time with the waves lapping the concrete pillars below. It’s soothing. She understands why he’s out here.
When she curls her arms around him from behind, she could weep, the solid presence of his body feels so welcome. Her mouth finds the curve of his shoulder blade; the sun has warmed the cotton of his shirt and she feels heat and sweat and summer beneath her lips.
In her embrace, the slightest quiver of tension leaves him.
He’s needed people for as long as she’s known him; probably before as well--his whole life long. She’s seen the way the people who love him protect him: Lincoln. Fernando. She herself has given everything for him, and would do so again.
She’s seen how he doesn’t want protecting. She knows he can’t watch her die for him again. Can’t watch his brother go to prison. Can’t even watch his friend bow his head in prayer. She knows first-hand the way his words can convince, the way his gaze can penetrate, coaxing what he wants from the people he loves, doesn’t love, hates. It’s made her reel, lash out, run away. It’s brought her back.
He’s all she has.
Today, he’s an island, the water from the bay reflecting upon his face until he squints, one hand groping blindly for hers until he finds it, clasps it, draws it against him.
He’s stripped her of everything. He’s afforded her everything.
He has been so many things to her, in such a short time: acquaintance, patient, ally, enemy, confidant, friend, betrayer, savior, mourner, lover.
As far as she’s concerned, he’s the last man on earth.
Author: wrldpossibility
Characters: Sara Tancredi, Michael Scofield
Word Count: 300 (Exactly. Precisely. I guess it is possible, even for me.)
Rating: PG
Spoilers: mention of 4.11
Summary: He has been so many things to her, in such a short time.
Author's Note: scribblecat informs me this will be my 300th post here at LJ. Who knew I had so much to say? So to mark the (not so) momentous occasion, I wrote a 300-word drabble about these two people I seem to enjoy writing fic about, you know, occasionally. *g* This comes from the dock scene of 4.11, Quiet Riot. The title/concept is based on an observation about Sara Tancredi that SWC has noted in the past.
When she finds him, he’s standing alone, staring out at the chopped-green water of the harbor. She approaches silently, her feet padding the wooden slats of the dock in time with the waves lapping the concrete pillars below. It’s soothing. She understands why he’s out here.
When she curls her arms around him from behind, she could weep, the solid presence of his body feels so welcome. Her mouth finds the curve of his shoulder blade; the sun has warmed the cotton of his shirt and she feels heat and sweat and summer beneath her lips.
In her embrace, the slightest quiver of tension leaves him.
He’s needed people for as long as she’s known him; probably before as well--his whole life long. She’s seen the way the people who love him protect him: Lincoln. Fernando. She herself has given everything for him, and would do so again.
She’s seen how he doesn’t want protecting. She knows he can’t watch her die for him again. Can’t watch his brother go to prison. Can’t even watch his friend bow his head in prayer. She knows first-hand the way his words can convince, the way his gaze can penetrate, coaxing what he wants from the people he loves, doesn’t love, hates. It’s made her reel, lash out, run away. It’s brought her back.
He’s all she has.
Today, he’s an island, the water from the bay reflecting upon his face until he squints, one hand groping blindly for hers until he finds it, clasps it, draws it against him.
He’s stripped her of everything. He’s afforded her everything.
He has been so many things to her, in such a short time: acquaintance, patient, ally, enemy, confidant, friend, betrayer, savior, mourner, lover.
As far as she’s concerned, he’s the last man on earth.