Ancient History
Title: Ancient History
Fandom: Prison Break
Characters: Michael Scofield, Sara Tancredi, OC
Pairing: Michael/Sara
Rating: PG-13
Author's Note: At some undetermined time in Sara and Michael's future, they are confronted with their past, in a somewhat threatening, but mostly amusing way. This little story began as a drabble for pbhiatus_fic's challenge, Are We There Yet. It grew longer than I planned, and this is what I ended up with. At this point, my only hope is that it entertains, makes you laugh, and doesn't bore you to tears!
Ancient History
“Sara, come on!” Michael groaned, standing in the doorway, coat in hand.
She was the one who had said they needed to leave at six, but here it was, 6:10, and she was still upstairs, no doubt jotting down every emergency number she knew, pouring juice into sippy cups, monitoring how much dinner was being eaten, and generally doing the job they were already paying the babysitter $10 an hour for.
He heard her calling out goodbyes, and then she was trotting down the stairs, one hand skimming the banister, the other in her hair, still trying to get it tucked into place behind her ear. Halfway down, she skidded to a halt, calling out that she’d forgotten her purse, and spun around to go back up. Typical, he thought. Also typical? The way his breath had caught in his throat at the sight of her on the stairs, all long legs and smooth lines, her cocktail dress falling perfectly to mid-thigh. Now, he was enjoying watching her go back up the stairs as much as he had enjoyed watching her come down. He leaned back against the doorjamb and smiled faintly to himself.
Finally, they were in the car, out of the driveway, and on the interstate. Sara eyed the speedometer. “You don‘t need to rush,” she whined half-heartedly. “Have I mentioned how much I hate these things?”
“The sooner we get there, the sooner we can leave.” He reached over and rested one hand on her knee, then let his thumb roll over her thigh in slow, teasing arcs.
“In that case, are we there yet?” Sara chuckled throatily, and Michael winked at her. She laughed outright, then leaned back in her seat and sighed. “Give me the rundown on these people again--whose house are we going to for dinner?”
“The Bradshaws. He’s actually fairly interesting--David…I think.”
“You can’t even remember his name!”
“That’s because I hardly know him. But I think he does something interesting…something in TV. He edits frames, or no, does sound. He’s a sound editor!” He raised a finger in the air triumphantly, then saw Sara smirking out of the corner of his eye, and poked her with it playfully. “Oh, stop! You can ask him all about it, and at least that’ll take up a good ten minutes of small talk. Anyway, his wife is the reason we have to go to this thing. She’s a major potential client for the firm. Her family’s loaded, and we’re trying to woo her into investing in a huge shopping mall project. It’s the one we need to anchor that downtown development.”
“How did you get roped into this account? You don’t even work on those projects.”
“I’ve had to work with her before, on that library thing, remember? Sherman evidently thought I might be able to nudge her in the right direction. Her name’s Trudy.”
“Hmm. She’s memorable, I notice.”
Michael rolled his eyes. “If we get the Bradshaws on board for the downtown thing, Sherman promises it will mean more funds rolled into my projects, which will eventually mean a nice big raise, which will mean we can buy that certain sailboat you’ve been campaigning for.”
Sara tried to still sound grouchy. “Your brother will just take it out on the weekends and trash it anyway.”
“But,” Michael countered, “he’ll take LJ with him, which means he won’t be crashing on our couch every night when he’s home for the summer.”
“True.”
“Then there you go. Every time you begin to think tonight is torture, you just think sailboat.”
Sara cocked her head to one side, clearly musing over this strategy. “Sailboat, hmm?”
* * * * *
Sailboat, sailboat, sailboat…on Lake Michigan, in the sun, no LJ eating all our food, sailboat, sailboat, sailboat…only a half an hour into drinks, and she was already dying.
“Dr. Scofield, do tell us all more about the charming medical practice you run for the underprivileged.”
Sara turned toward Trudy Bradshaw, and willed her eyebrows not to shoot straight up in disbelief. “I’m not sure ‘charming’ is the right word,” she ventured, keeping her face carefully neutral.
“But you treat, like, the homeless, and addicts, and those kinds of people, right?” Trudy hid her face behind one manicured hand, looking half horrified, half intrigued. Sara simply stared. This woman was nothing short of ridiculous.
She had just thought of the perfect retort, and was about to deliver it, when she heard Michael’s voice behind her, and felt his hand graze her bare shoulder. “Yes, those kinds of people,” he answered for her, his diplomatic tone veiling his sarcasm. “You could even say the kind of people without, oh I don’t know, sailboats, could you not, Sara?”
She turned and fixed a heated gaze unflinchingly on his mild blue one. “Yes, I suppose there are a lot of people like that in the world,” she returned dryly.
“Oh yes,” squealed Trudy, immediately sidetracked into an inane conversation with her husband about yachts.
An hour later, they were finally seated at the dinner table, and Sara thought that if she could only get through the salad and the main course, she’d be home free. After that there was only dessert, which was fast, and then they could leave midway through after-dinner drinks.
She turned the conversation to David Bradshaw, asking about his sound editing career out of sheer desperation. She absolutely could not discuss another thing with his wife. She had already been forced to share her thoughts on various fashion designers (who?), the fundraising efforts of the Chicago philharmonic (two dozen more worthy causes sprung to mind in under four seconds), and whether liposuction really was as invasive as it looked on Nip/Tuck (ask a plastic surgeon--the one who did those boobs will suffice).
She had managed to listen and nod just enough to get to dessert when the topic steered back closer to home. “But I’ve been monopolizing the conversation,” David finally realized. “What have you been working on, Michael? Trudy tells me you’re no longer heading the commercial construction projects for the firm.”
She felt Michael start beside her, and guessed he’d been half asleep before he heard his name. “Well, I’ve been fortunate enough to be given the funding for some very different projects I’ve had to put on hold for some time.”
“Such as?” David prompted.
“Work involving prison reform, actually,” Michael clarified, but before he could elaborate, Trudy squealed.
“Prisons! What could engineering have to do with prisons?”
Michael fixed her with a level gaze. Sara thought he was exhibiting rather more self-control than she could have mustered. “Well, someone has to design them, to begin with,” he said placidly. “And it’s my belief that it can be done--should be done--in a different way than has been standard in the past.”
Michael was animated now, and Sara couldn’t help but share the spark of his sudden enthusiasm. She knew how close this subject was to his heart. “Michael is designing prison models that don’t just incarcerate, but help rehabilitate by the very nature of their structure,” she explained.
The Bradshaws still looked perplexed. “How do you do that?” David asked.
Michael leaned forward eagerly. “Some ways are very simple--the use of extensive windows and light, for instance, increases endorphins in the brain that nurture optimism, hope. Wider, more open spaces promote community. These are all ideas outlined over a century ago by lead prison reformists, but never implicated.” Sara could see him searching his mind for more examples. “Ah, a new take on cell design which would allow better visual access for guards, which leads to less violence among inmates…there are many, many possibilities.”
Trudy looked mesmerized. “But with big windows, won’t the prisoners escape?” she gasped.
“No need to worry, Trudy,” he answered, his eyes carefully avoiding Sara’s. “I imagine it would take much more than smashing a window to escape such highly secured buildings.” He leaned back again. “At any rate, we’re starting with renovations on some of the oldest facilities in the Midwest, beginning with the empty ones.”
“Will you renovate Fox River, then?” asked David. “How long has that prison remained unused?”
“Only a few years, actually,” Michael answered carefully. Sara cast a quick glance at him, and this time, he met her gaze. “The Bradshaws have been living in Europe for the past ten years,” he informed her pointedly.
“Yes, I’m afraid we quite lost track of all local news for that time period,” Trudy twittered, and Sara nodded, smiling slightly. She knew she’d eventually find something redeeming about this couple. She’d have to remember to thank Michael for failing to mention this little detail earlier.
“But no,” Michael was continuing, “I don’t hold the contract for that particular prison.” The Bradshaws remained fixed on him for explanation, and Michael turned his face pointedly away from Sara’s before elaborating. “You know how it is,” he said smoothly. “These things are always so political.”
Sara nearly choked on her flan. Political. But then she had to wipe the smirk off her face because she was being addressed now. “You’d know all about that, I presume,” David said. “Even we remember your father’s long service to this state.”
“Yes,” she answered vaguely. “Politics can be tough.”
“Oh, but that’s how we met, isn’t it David?” Trudy interjected. She followed up her comment with a long story that involved a local campaign rally and Trudy running some sort of volunteer station. “But what about you two?” she smiled, wagging her finger in Michael and Sara’s general direction. “Where did you meet?”
And there it was. It wasn’t the first time the question had been sprung at them, and Sara considered herself quite accomplished at deflecting it, either changing the subject back to the asker, or begging off with the insistence that she didn’t want to bore her listeners to death. She opened her mouth to do exactly that, but heard Michael beat her to the punch.
“Prison,” he declared cheerfully, and Sara did a double-take, nearly knocking over her glass. But one look at him, and she could see that he at least thought he had it all under control, his demeanor a perfect picture of cocky humor and confidence. What’s more, he looked like he was having fun for the first time that evening.
“Prison!” Trudy trilled, looking positively beside herself.
“Well sure,” Michael responded smoothly. “Sara was working as a prison doctor when I met her.”
Trudy whirled on Sara excitedly. “With criminals?” She leaned in conspiratorially. “Were they absolutely horrible?”
Sara tried with all her might to keep a straight face. “Some gave me more trouble than others.”
Michael laughed outright, but David’s voice drowned him out. “And you were there doing research on your prison reform designs!” he guessed happily.
Michael paused for a beat. “Sure,” he finally answered, his voice smooth as silk, his eyes twinkling. “It’s important to really understand the conditions of the average inmate.” He leaned forward again, and Sara had the sinking suspicion he was enjoying himself too thoroughly now to stop. “I pretended I was a diabetic,” he revealed, “just so I could go see her in the infirmary every day at 2 pm.”
Trudy squealed again, and clapped her hands together. “Was it terribly romantic?” she asked Sara.
“Oh, terribly,” she deadpanned. “Of course, there were always guards standing around underfoot, putting a damper on everything.”
“Ah yes,” Michael said. “If only they would have minded their own business.” Sara felt his hand reach for hers under the table, but didn’t acknowledge it, knowing if she did, she’d lose it completely. Her face was already twitching; she was afraid she would give them away any second now. She looked straight down at her plate, trying to work her mouth into at least an imitation of an acceptable expression.
“I can just picture you,” Trudy cooed to Sara, “watching the clock, waiting for your favorite appointment to show up every day. Then he’d be there, and you must have just melted!”
Sara chanced a glance at Michael. “Something like that,” she conceded, feeling the smile tugging at her lips again.
“Oh now, she’s being secretive, David,” Trudy teased. “I have a feeling we’re not getting the full story!”
Sara felt a stab of panic, no immediate response coming to mind, but then Michael was coming to her rescue.
“Not at all, Trudy,” he said amicably, and Sara could see the other woman trying to work out whether that meant they were being forthcoming, or not. Before she could ask, he competently drew the subject to a close. “It’s just that the rest, as they say, is history.”
* * * * *
Standing in front of their bedroom closet two hours later, Sara heard Michael walk up behind her. “I trust you enjoyed yourself tonight,” she teased.
“Oh, I most certainly did,” he answered. She could tell without turning around that he was grinning.
“Did the sitter leave?” she asked. Michael was right behind her now, his hands on her waist.
“Mmmhmm.” His mouth pressed gently down onto the curve of her shoulder.
“Did you check on the kids?”
“Asleep.” He lifted the curtain of her hair with one hand, exposing her neck. He kissed her there, too. She sighed, and leaned back in the circle of his arms. His hands ran up the to the neckline of her dress, found the zipper, and slowly pulled it down, his fingers skimming her spine as they went. When it stopped at her waist, he slipped his hands inside, trailing along the flesh of her stomach, then higher, his palms cupping her breasts.
Sara whimpered, and leaned forward into his hands. He ran his thumbs gently over the silk of her bra, his mouth finding her neck again, placing slow, open kisses to her skin. “Michael,” she asked, her voice feeling low and choked, “are you by any chance thinking about Fox River?”
His hands ran back down her body, finding her hips and pulling her flush against him. She felt him fit perfectly to her, hard and insistent, and instinctually pressed backward into him. He groaned. “Whatever gave you that idea, Doctor?” he whispered, his breath warm in her ear. He pushed her dress off her shoulders, and it fell into a soft heap at her feet. She turned in his arms and smiled, recognizing a rhetorical question when she heard one. “Michael?“ she asked again, her fingers adeptly working the clasp of his pants. He placed a kiss to her collarbone, then her right breast. She didn‘t wait for him to answer. “I’m so glad we didn’t meet at an insanely boring campaign rally.”