Seven (6/7)
Title: Seven
Author: wrldpossibility
Characters: Sara Tancredi (primarily), Michael Jr., Lincoln Burrows, mention of Michael Scofield, ensemble
Chapter: 6/7, Depression
Word Count: 1760
Rating: PG-13
Warning: Well, if the title of this chapter is any indication...
Spoilers: For the series.
Summary: A lot can happen in four years...
Author's Note:Back from camping. I wrote and proofread this before we left, but then I got home too late today to read it through again before posting...I sure hope there are no typos. On a related note, I missed the pb_rewatch tonight, which I was looking forward to. Boo long drives. Many thanks to rosie_spleen and linzi20 per usual.
Chapter 6
Depression
“The woods are lovely, dark, and deep.
But I have promises to keep.
And miles to go before I sleep.
And miles to go before I sleep.” --Robert Frost
Sara drives home that night--the night of her angry confrontation with Lincoln--through the blinding rain, her car hydroplaning over the sandy, wet road more than once as her tires fail to find purchase, her windshield wipers unable to keep pace with the storm she’s trying to outrun.
Any other night, Lincoln would have insisted he or LJ drive her home. As she navigates the darkening roads, she wonders if even now, he’s standing at the window of the dive shop, frowning in misgiving. She hopes so. She glances back all too often at Michael behind her; she notes his hands tightly gripping the plastic armrests of his car seat, his wide eyes, and knows the weather, or perhaps her driving, is scaring him.
In the driveway of her bungalow, she barely has time to get him unbuckled before the hail hits. She‘s forced to bend nearly double as she runs toward the house, his weight heavy in her arms, her hand protectively over the crown of his head. Once inside, the sudden silence buzzes in her ears. She makes a joke about their drenched clothes, draws Michael a bath, and tries not to worry about the fact that she hadn’t yet taken the time to board the windows and check the roof for leaks.
It’s a long night. She lies awake for most of it, Michael a warm crescent-moon of toddlerhood curled at her side.
By morning, the rain is still pouring down, and a steady siphon of water is dripping from the ceiling to a spot on the cheap woven rug by her bed. After the endless night and--she might as well face it--endless past three years, she really can’t muster up the energy to care.
She watches the floor become slowly soaked, and wonders if this is what it feels like to give up.
*****
Either way, it feels pretty good, actually.
Not caring makes most things easier to bear, a discovery she’s surprised it’s taken so long for her to make.
Her relationship with Lincoln is still tense at best, mostly because she’s made only minimal effort to make things right.
At work, the same suntanned deep sea fisherman, an American who makes his home in Cristobal five months out of the year, stops in four times in three weeks, each time with a more pathetic excuse for a visit. When he lingers extra-long at her reception desk, offering to buy her a cup of coffee, she feels nothing but a dull disinterest. Had lines like this ever worked on her? She finally asks, point-blank, whether he’s hitting on her, not to be smart, but because it really had taken up until that very moment to remember that this may still be a distant possibility.
His look of startled embarrassment almost makes her smile. In fact, the corner of her mouth twitches. He recovers quickly. “Apparently not very well,” he concedes genially, and she has to agree.
It’s only her child that keeps her rising every morning and going about the process of making a living wage and putting food on the table. It’s only for him that she remembers to (genuinely) smile and have the occasional bit of fun.
She wonders if Michael had known this would be the case, from the moment he placed his hands over the barely discernable swell of her abdomen in the dank underground of the prison.
But I will be with you.
Like hell, she thinks impulsively, watching their son silently push his paper truck along the windowsill, alone.
Perhaps she’s not quite as numb about it all as she’d like to think.
*****
Some time after Michael’s third birthday, Sara starts braces herself for the inevitable questions.
He asks, after all, about everything. How birds fly. How cars start. Why the moon changes shape. Why he can’t walk through walls.
Why shouldn’t he ask about his father?
She thinks she’s prepared. She’s played Michael‘s video in his presence since birth, and she’s mentioned him in casual conversation since the time he could talk. He’s as aware as any preschooler could be about the facts: That’s your daddy. No, he’s not here. Yes, he’s loved you since before you were born.
She knows she’s just biding her time until these explanations are no longer satisfactory. Before his sharp little mind connects the dots and finally reaches to…why? How? When?
Where.
But he doesn’t ask any of these things. Instead, he pops a much more innocent question over a plate of his favorite dinner.
“I like peas,” he says idly as she sits beside him, ignoring her own portion. He‘s stabbing them one by one with the tine of his fork until they resemble a fat caterpillar skewered on a stick. She looks away, mentally planning her next day. “Did my daddy like peas?”
She feels her heart lurch about six inches south. “What did you say?”
“Did my--”
“I know what you said.” It’s harsher than she intended; he’s looking at her questioningly, his pea-filled fork dangling loosely from his fingers. She forces a smile. “I just wonder what makes you ask that?”
But in fact, she’s not wondering. She’s stalling for time.
Because she doesn’t know the answer.
An older child might have seen the expression of horror on her face and wondered if they’d inadvertently brought up a taboo subject. Michael only looks guilelessly from her back to his fork before bringing it to his mouth.
“Never mind,” he says contentedly. “I think he did. Because I do.” He looks back at Sara, who decides if she just keeps from blinking, he won’t see the tears brimming her eyes. “And we’re two peas in a pod.”
The tears fall.
“Like that book, Mommy. You know that pea pod book we read.”
“Yes.” It’s just some ridiculous picture book Michael has become attached to, and absolutely unable to explain to him why its mention is causing her to sob, she only nods.
She knows.
*****
Later that same spring, she walks into Lincoln’s kitchen on a lazy Saturday to the sight of her son standing over a hot stove. His uncle is propping him up on one knee while he flips something quite blackened in a skillet.
“We’re makin’ pancakes!” Michael says excitedly before she can let her admonition fly. “Blueberry!”
Lincoln has the grace to look notably more sheepish. “Kind of a specialty of mine.” He makes a show of settling Michael further away from the hot burner, then turns to confirm this fact with LJ, who has padded into the room behind her. He merely grunts in acknowledgement, but Sara can see that he’s smiling.
Michael grins unabashedly back at him, a blob of purple batter stuck to the corner of his mouth. He’s recently acquired quite the admiration for his older cousin. Sara stands in the doorway, taking them all in from one to the next. She has these moments more and more often these days…moments where she seems to come out of some sort of long-term reverie to think: where am I? Who are these people, every single one of them virtually unknown to her as few as four years ago? Sometimes, the dots she has to connect to get from single prison doctor in Chicago, Illinois to mother, sister-in-law, and aunt in remote Panama seem entirely too distant and muddled to possibly be accurate.
And yet, here they are, like a disorienting dream and a mini-miracle both at once. She waits for Lincoln to slide the last pancake onto a waiting plate and swing Michael down to the floor before interrupting.
“Can we talk?”
He nods while indicating for LJ to supervise the drizzling of syrup under Michael’s heavy-handed command.
On the deck, the sun feels nice for a change. “I’m sorry for all my talk of origami and messages,” she says.
Linc looks straight ahead at the ocean. “Don’t you believe all that stuff you said anymore?”
She’s not entirely sure what she believes. At any rate, Michael is not here, and whether he’s alive or not, sending her word or not, she’s forced to admit there’s been no real indication that he ever will be. She‘s weary…very weary…of trying to prove otherwise. “I’m not sure…” she begins carefully, but he cuts her off.
“Because here’s the thing. I believe you.” She can only gape at him. “I believe you, and it makes me so pissing mad--at him, at myself, at the fucking universe--I can barely stand to think about it.”
She closes her eyes tightly, but when she opens them, he’s still standing there, finally agreeing with her that Michael may, in fact, be alive. Now? she wants to scream. Now you believe me, just when I can’t bear to entertain the idea for a minute more?
But she manages a small nod. “I know.”
“And if you’re right--if this is true--there’s not a fucking thing we can do about it. He just…” Lincoln flails one arm helplessly out past the deck railing “…goes and does whatever the hell he wants to do, and we have to just sit on the sidelines, not ever knowing a fucking thing.”
She nods again.
“It’s like seeing his stupid, sorry, smart-ass striding into Fox River without a word of discussion--my hands tied--all over again.”
“Yes.”
“Right under my nose, making his goddamned plans, never consulting me, keeping me in the dark.”
She’s can barely speak. “Exactly.”
Lincoln seems to pause for breath. When he looks back at her, an odd expression, not unlike wonder, is lining his face. “It really does sound like something he’d do, doesn’t it?”
She dips her head once more in agreement, allowing her forehead to come to rest heavily on the rail, shoulders rounded as though against an invisible gale. She won’t allow her hopes to rise. Not again.
“It does.”
Author: wrldpossibility
Characters: Sara Tancredi (primarily), Michael Jr., Lincoln Burrows, mention of Michael Scofield, ensemble
Chapter: 6/7, Depression
Word Count: 1760
Rating: PG-13
Warning: Well, if the title of this chapter is any indication...
Spoilers: For the series.
Summary: A lot can happen in four years...
Author's Note:Back from camping. I wrote and proofread this before we left, but then I got home too late today to read it through again before posting...I sure hope there are no typos. On a related note, I missed the pb_rewatch tonight, which I was looking forward to. Boo long drives. Many thanks to rosie_spleen and linzi20 per usual.
Chapter 6
Depression
“The woods are lovely, dark, and deep.
But I have promises to keep.
And miles to go before I sleep.
And miles to go before I sleep.” --Robert Frost
Sara drives home that night--the night of her angry confrontation with Lincoln--through the blinding rain, her car hydroplaning over the sandy, wet road more than once as her tires fail to find purchase, her windshield wipers unable to keep pace with the storm she’s trying to outrun.
Any other night, Lincoln would have insisted he or LJ drive her home. As she navigates the darkening roads, she wonders if even now, he’s standing at the window of the dive shop, frowning in misgiving. She hopes so. She glances back all too often at Michael behind her; she notes his hands tightly gripping the plastic armrests of his car seat, his wide eyes, and knows the weather, or perhaps her driving, is scaring him.
In the driveway of her bungalow, she barely has time to get him unbuckled before the hail hits. She‘s forced to bend nearly double as she runs toward the house, his weight heavy in her arms, her hand protectively over the crown of his head. Once inside, the sudden silence buzzes in her ears. She makes a joke about their drenched clothes, draws Michael a bath, and tries not to worry about the fact that she hadn’t yet taken the time to board the windows and check the roof for leaks.
It’s a long night. She lies awake for most of it, Michael a warm crescent-moon of toddlerhood curled at her side.
By morning, the rain is still pouring down, and a steady siphon of water is dripping from the ceiling to a spot on the cheap woven rug by her bed. After the endless night and--she might as well face it--endless past three years, she really can’t muster up the energy to care.
She watches the floor become slowly soaked, and wonders if this is what it feels like to give up.
*****
Either way, it feels pretty good, actually.
Not caring makes most things easier to bear, a discovery she’s surprised it’s taken so long for her to make.
Her relationship with Lincoln is still tense at best, mostly because she’s made only minimal effort to make things right.
At work, the same suntanned deep sea fisherman, an American who makes his home in Cristobal five months out of the year, stops in four times in three weeks, each time with a more pathetic excuse for a visit. When he lingers extra-long at her reception desk, offering to buy her a cup of coffee, she feels nothing but a dull disinterest. Had lines like this ever worked on her? She finally asks, point-blank, whether he’s hitting on her, not to be smart, but because it really had taken up until that very moment to remember that this may still be a distant possibility.
His look of startled embarrassment almost makes her smile. In fact, the corner of her mouth twitches. He recovers quickly. “Apparently not very well,” he concedes genially, and she has to agree.
It’s only her child that keeps her rising every morning and going about the process of making a living wage and putting food on the table. It’s only for him that she remembers to (genuinely) smile and have the occasional bit of fun.
She wonders if Michael had known this would be the case, from the moment he placed his hands over the barely discernable swell of her abdomen in the dank underground of the prison.
But I will be with you.
Like hell, she thinks impulsively, watching their son silently push his paper truck along the windowsill, alone.
Perhaps she’s not quite as numb about it all as she’d like to think.
*****
Some time after Michael’s third birthday, Sara starts braces herself for the inevitable questions.
He asks, after all, about everything. How birds fly. How cars start. Why the moon changes shape. Why he can’t walk through walls.
Why shouldn’t he ask about his father?
She thinks she’s prepared. She’s played Michael‘s video in his presence since birth, and she’s mentioned him in casual conversation since the time he could talk. He’s as aware as any preschooler could be about the facts: That’s your daddy. No, he’s not here. Yes, he’s loved you since before you were born.
She knows she’s just biding her time until these explanations are no longer satisfactory. Before his sharp little mind connects the dots and finally reaches to…why? How? When?
Where.
But he doesn’t ask any of these things. Instead, he pops a much more innocent question over a plate of his favorite dinner.
“I like peas,” he says idly as she sits beside him, ignoring her own portion. He‘s stabbing them one by one with the tine of his fork until they resemble a fat caterpillar skewered on a stick. She looks away, mentally planning her next day. “Did my daddy like peas?”
She feels her heart lurch about six inches south. “What did you say?”
“Did my--”
“I know what you said.” It’s harsher than she intended; he’s looking at her questioningly, his pea-filled fork dangling loosely from his fingers. She forces a smile. “I just wonder what makes you ask that?”
But in fact, she’s not wondering. She’s stalling for time.
Because she doesn’t know the answer.
An older child might have seen the expression of horror on her face and wondered if they’d inadvertently brought up a taboo subject. Michael only looks guilelessly from her back to his fork before bringing it to his mouth.
“Never mind,” he says contentedly. “I think he did. Because I do.” He looks back at Sara, who decides if she just keeps from blinking, he won’t see the tears brimming her eyes. “And we’re two peas in a pod.”
The tears fall.
“Like that book, Mommy. You know that pea pod book we read.”
“Yes.” It’s just some ridiculous picture book Michael has become attached to, and absolutely unable to explain to him why its mention is causing her to sob, she only nods.
She knows.
*****
Later that same spring, she walks into Lincoln’s kitchen on a lazy Saturday to the sight of her son standing over a hot stove. His uncle is propping him up on one knee while he flips something quite blackened in a skillet.
“We’re makin’ pancakes!” Michael says excitedly before she can let her admonition fly. “Blueberry!”
Lincoln has the grace to look notably more sheepish. “Kind of a specialty of mine.” He makes a show of settling Michael further away from the hot burner, then turns to confirm this fact with LJ, who has padded into the room behind her. He merely grunts in acknowledgement, but Sara can see that he’s smiling.
Michael grins unabashedly back at him, a blob of purple batter stuck to the corner of his mouth. He’s recently acquired quite the admiration for his older cousin. Sara stands in the doorway, taking them all in from one to the next. She has these moments more and more often these days…moments where she seems to come out of some sort of long-term reverie to think: where am I? Who are these people, every single one of them virtually unknown to her as few as four years ago? Sometimes, the dots she has to connect to get from single prison doctor in Chicago, Illinois to mother, sister-in-law, and aunt in remote Panama seem entirely too distant and muddled to possibly be accurate.
And yet, here they are, like a disorienting dream and a mini-miracle both at once. She waits for Lincoln to slide the last pancake onto a waiting plate and swing Michael down to the floor before interrupting.
“Can we talk?”
He nods while indicating for LJ to supervise the drizzling of syrup under Michael’s heavy-handed command.
On the deck, the sun feels nice for a change. “I’m sorry for all my talk of origami and messages,” she says.
Linc looks straight ahead at the ocean. “Don’t you believe all that stuff you said anymore?”
She’s not entirely sure what she believes. At any rate, Michael is not here, and whether he’s alive or not, sending her word or not, she’s forced to admit there’s been no real indication that he ever will be. She‘s weary…very weary…of trying to prove otherwise. “I’m not sure…” she begins carefully, but he cuts her off.
“Because here’s the thing. I believe you.” She can only gape at him. “I believe you, and it makes me so pissing mad--at him, at myself, at the fucking universe--I can barely stand to think about it.”
She closes her eyes tightly, but when she opens them, he’s still standing there, finally agreeing with her that Michael may, in fact, be alive. Now? she wants to scream. Now you believe me, just when I can’t bear to entertain the idea for a minute more?
But she manages a small nod. “I know.”
“And if you’re right--if this is true--there’s not a fucking thing we can do about it. He just…” Lincoln flails one arm helplessly out past the deck railing “…goes and does whatever the hell he wants to do, and we have to just sit on the sidelines, not ever knowing a fucking thing.”
She nods again.
“It’s like seeing his stupid, sorry, smart-ass striding into Fox River without a word of discussion--my hands tied--all over again.”
“Yes.”
“Right under my nose, making his goddamned plans, never consulting me, keeping me in the dark.”
She’s can barely speak. “Exactly.”
Lincoln seems to pause for breath. When he looks back at her, an odd expression, not unlike wonder, is lining his face. “It really does sound like something he’d do, doesn’t it?”
She dips her head once more in agreement, allowing her forehead to come to rest heavily on the rail, shoulders rounded as though against an invisible gale. She won’t allow her hopes to rise. Not again.
“It does.”