#I wanted to see the bite and I wanted to see Michael’s guilt consume him

[caesurah-tblr]

Was the fnaf movie what I wanted?

No, not at all.

Did I still enjoy every moment of it?

Yes, yes I did.

[adultswim2021]

Moral Orel #22: “Repression” | May 7, 2007 - 12:15AM | S02E12

Principal Fakey’s ongoing fling with Nurse Bendy is the focus of this episode. Bendy is a vapid but young and attractive school nurse, and Principal Fakey is just one of Moralton’s many lame, weak-willed and terrible men. Fakey is so consumed with guilt that he shies away from the details while in confession (we’ve seen a similar scene earlier in the series, but I forget what episode). Reverend Putty just wants to get some onanistic thrills from the sordid details, but Fakey can’t bring himself to go too deep into. Putty’s frustration stems only from being denied wack-off fodder. 

Orel, overhearing this, seeks wisdom from his father, who teaches him about repression. He also extols the virtues of being an authority figure. Not only do authority figures know best, but they are also the single authority of their own emotions and their personal truths. Orel relays this to Principal Fakey, who becomes a master of denial. In fact, while thrusting into Nurse Bendy, he learns that he has an STD (apparently school nurses can test for STDs). Oblivious to the fact he clearly got it from her (she speaks knowledgeably about how to treat said STD suggesting she has first-hand experience with it), Fakey immediately throws his poor, suffering wife out, believing that she must have given it to him.

There’s some funny dialogue in this one, and the episode is consistently funny, but it’s not VERY funny. There are very typical Moral Orel style jokes, but fails to be anything truly special. Mid-grade Orel. Not knocking it! I’ll take mid-grade Orel! 

I genuinely wonder if this is based on this bit from The Guide For the Married Man. I’ve basically lived my whole life based on the teachings of this sketch.

EPHEMERA CORNER

MAIL BAG

Jason Alexander admitted on 20/20 just now that he thought Michael Richards racial tirade was funny. He's crying about it as we speak.

I also thought it was funny but you don’t see ME crying! At least not for that reason!

What would you imagine would be the ideal first taste of Jonah Ray? Like if you had to procure a bite of Jonah Ray Comedy to make it the most palatable to a new comer. Any toppings?

A new coomer lol. Uh, I would slide that gorgeous human being with a soul and everything a copy of his AST-Records 7 Inch, which is dedicated to all of the fucking girls who ever shit on his heart... may they rest une peace!

The concept of Bob Odenkirk being "bit" by the Tim and Eric bug is so funny. He was also instrumental in grooming The Birthday Boys into prominence (in more ways than one). You could say he was the Lou Pearlman on young whiteboy comedy in the late aughts (in more ways than one).

I wanna get him to help me out by writing him a nice letter but I’m afraid now he’ll kick my freaking ass

It's Adam and Eve not Larry and Steve

LOL THATS FOR SURE

Not only did you know guys who looked like Jonah Ray, but one of our friends famously ID'd himself as Jonah Ray in an early viral video. Do you remember that and remember that man? You like him a lot. I can guarantee.

Don’t say private stuff like this on my mail bag, you dope. I do love that man, I love him a lot.

Link to the fuckable killer blog? Sound pretty good?

NO. This is more important than keeping the bit going, and I can tell this might hurt you. There is no blog where a guy ranks horror movies by how fuckable the killer is. I made it up. If you would like to start this as a blog yourself, as a spin-off (but you have to put in the description that you are a spin-off of this and link to me) then please go ahead. I would like to expand this universe.

[kainscape]

Slashers with an S/O who talks in their sleep

@chibizombiebehindyou: Could you do the slashers (including Asa and Jesse) with a reader who talks in their sleep?

A/N: Decided to do this in a short prompt type of writing piece so I can practice writing short stories without going way overboard

A/N: okay maybe it’s not as short as I thought but hey, it’s not over 2 pages- yeah no it’s pretty lengthy 💀 and it’s not proofread ‼️

Bo Sinclair

It was a consuming and bone-breaking job that the Sinclair brothers did. Therefore, sleep was never guaranteed. But, with you? You decided on your own that you would keep yourself awake to see Bo come home in one piece. He always brushed your worry off as your so called obsession with him. After a few times of butchering your sleep schedule, it wasn't long before you were fast asleep when Bo retuned home. He made his way up the stairs, shedding his boots at the top. Discarding his mechanic coveralls, he was left in a stained but washed grey t shirt and his boxers. He had heard some quiet mumbling but didn't really look into it. The noise had vanished as he pulled back some of the old cover, slowly resting his body beside you. You had looked dead asleep, your body contracting slow and steady breaths. Exempt your mouth moving and forming words. He smirked, realizing you were taking in your sleep. He had some assumptions about it when you would ask questions with no reasoning. He wasn’t too worried. He propped himself up on his elbow to look over at you. “What do you mean you didn’t see it?! It was as big as your ass dude!” That’s something he’s never heard before. He couldn’t help but genuinely laugh at your behavior, shaking his head until he heard his name. “Well, Bo, what else do you want me compare it to, your dick!? Yeah right.” His face deadpanned, furrowing his eyebrows. He scoffed, turning over dramatically as he rolled his eyes. He faced away from you, biting the inside of his cheek. In the morning, he might tease you or ask questions around what you said. Either way, he’s not bothered by it.

Vincent Sinclair

It had been a long day for the boys and you within Ambrose. What a better way to go to sleep cuddled up together and arise later in the day by Bo? Of course, you were always first within the bed, already dead asleep and dreaming of whatever your mind wander to. Vincent kept awareness of where the creeks were in the floorboards, avoiding them so he could peacefully lay in bed next to your sleeping form. Yet he heard some prominent mumbling coming from you, serving closer and gently easing up the blankets to slip in. He had removed his mask already, carefully turning to face you. You had your arm over your eyes, mouth open and moving from incoherent sentences. But one was clear as day, “I’m convinced Vincent uses Gucci conditioner and shampoo, my god.” You mumbled a few after that but he was utterly confused. Why were you talking about that weird brand you had showed him once, and why did it correlate to your dream?? He shook his head gently, scooting closer and resting his arm across your waist/stomach, pulling himself against your form until he fell asleep to your rhythmic breathing. Sometimes, he’s entertained by your night time conversations.

Lester Sinclair

Your boyfriend had a fairly easy job compared to his brothers, but when there were visitors piling up after one another, it took a whole lot longer to come back home to you and your shared bed. The frogs and cicadas were a whole lot louder than usuals, but it was like a lullaby to you by now. Which queues the small mumbling escaping your mouth. He was quiet when he came, but of course, Lester wasn’t the best at silence. Luckily you were to lost in your dream to realize he was already snuggling in beside you. He had took notice of your nonsense sentences from time to time, not that it bothered him. If anything, it was an entertaining thing to listen to before going to sleep. It gave him a sense of what your brain really thinks of. “Lester… if I dressed up as roadkill… would you pick me up too?” He tried so damn hard to stifle his laugh, his body almost shaking as you formed a stupid grin on your face. Lester took in a deep breath, biting the inside of his cheek as he buried his head into the side of your neck. “Sure, hun’” he was sure to keep his words to a hush, taking note to your shared silence. There was a comfortable coldness that covered your bodies compared to the blistering heat outside. What a way to end the day.

Will Graham

Go to work, panic, panic some more and get no sleep. This was Wills routine even with you trying to hassle him into bed. He was always focused on something, or just simply to stubborn to let himself rest for once. But tonight, he had one hell of an excuse. Jack had kept him for a lot longer than both of you would like. But you knew what you signed up for when you accepted to go on a date with Will. You figured out after multiple nights of fruitless attempts at staying up and waiting for your boyfriend, you just gave in and went to sleep on your own terms. This gave Will the opportunity to overthink in peace without the guilt of making you worry. The job had took a huge toll on his physical capacity, leading him to shrugging off his clothing while he made his way to the side of the bed. He rubbed his eye, yawning as he lifted the blanket to the new queen bed you guys had bought, giving more room for dogs and the two of you. He stopped his motions, watching closely as you turned your body towards him. You were mouthing words but they were quiet and blotched. Will slowly slid underneath the covers, feeling his body sink in the end to a relaxed position. He had took not of your sleep talking, not bothered by it. To be honest, he likes to hear what you would say when you weren’t conscious of it. “I wish we had one of those stress powered lightbulbs…” A very quiet and short chuckle made its way out of you, “of course it’s for you, you could probably power Russia with how much stress you have.” And with that, he scoffed and turned the other way, mumbling to himself before attempting to sleep.

Jason Voorhees

Jason always makes sure you’re getting enough rest for your health. He’s adamant about you being your best self with a healthy body and mind. But, he’s never really surprised to see you up waiting for him time to time, honestly he can’t complain. He loves seeing you there in the cabin with the fire still going as you greet him with that beautiful smile. It’s truly warming for him. The rest of the nights, you’re always in the dark comfort of your shared room, resting atop the creaking bed and under the quilt blankets. The cabin door whipped open, quickly caught by the giant hand wrestling against the harsh winter wind. He tried his best to quietly close the door, pushing the lock in place he had added after a break in from a trespasser happened. He observed the room, laying his machete within the kitchen sink after shedding his jacket and laying it on the chair around the wood table. Expertly avoiding the creaks in the floor, he gently pushed open the bedroom door, slipping in without a sound. There was a severely dim light coming from the window, which shadowed over your face just right so he could see you. Jason had took off his boots while he listening to the common small talk from your sleeping form. You guys had decided to look in all the cabins, landing on the jackpot of a bigger bed so you could have more room. Therefore, it wasn’t a huge hassle for Jason to slip into the bed without the alarm of waking you. You were turned away from him, slow breaths from to body. The hockey mask laid on the dusty end table, facing up as Jason looked down at you. A small smile formed on his lips, listening as your talking grew a little more coherent. “Come on Jason, you got all that cake.. and you’re not gonna give me none?” His smile slowly faded, realizing what you meant by ‘cake.’ It ha mentioned before, especially when you went out of your way to slap his ass and look him in eyes to say, “a whole damn bakery back there..” Jason took it on himself to get used to it, not bothered by the comments. He shook his head, inching down so he could pull you closer to his chest, a very strong arm wrapped around you.

Michael Myers

There’s never a sleep schedule with the two of you. There’s times where Michael is out for days at time, retuning only when your asleep and unknowing. There are those very rare times like this one where you’re aware of Michaels presence in the bed while you drift of into sleep. He’s definitely not the type to pull you close or make a move to hold you, but he’s not going to push you away if you wrap yourself around him. Which is where you lay on his chest, listening to his eternally calmed heart beat as you knocked out. It had took a damn long time, but you achieved the privilege of seeing Michael without the infamous mask you grew accustomed too. His eyes usually zeroed in on the ceiling, waiting until he need to close his eyes came. But this time, he looked down at you shifting a bit in his chest, a few words spoken. “I really don’t know how people can’t smell you form your hiding places.. I can literally smell you before you walk in a room.. it’s not a good thing either.” His eyebrows furrowed together, trying to understand why you were composing about how he.. smelled. Yet here you are, your face completely shoved into his chest. He gave you an unimpressed eye roll, turning his head on the pillow for an attempt at some sleep. He found it rather amusing that you would speak whatever you thought without restrictions when you would sleep talk. Something to quietly tease you about.

Jesse Cromeans

He had already experienced your sleep taking, the cameras in his house capturing anything you did. Sometimes you asked questions or said random comments, all that made Jesse smirk or silently laugh. He had also taken notice to the earlier times you went to bed, your stubborn idea to stay up and wait for him dying down. He didn’t mind this, satisfied with your healthy sleep schedule returning. He set the tapes in a box for tomorrow’s checking. Jesse eased open the bedroom door, a small ray of light traveling across the room to reveal the bed you laid in. The black silk sheets covering your sound figure. He pushed the door back closed, taking off all his work attire to be left in his boxers and undershirt. He shimmied underneath the covers, slowly scooting closer to your body. Of course, there were some unconscious words to be shared. “I just realized I’ve got to sleep in every room…” there was some silence before you spoke again, “why?… look don’t even worry about.” There was humorous tone in the last sentence, one that felt oddly genuine for someone asleep. He shook his head, smiling while he took in your scent that comforted him. His hands caressed any exposed skin as the room fell silent, including his mind as you both shared a deep sleep.

Asa Emory

It wasn’t something he really cared to take notice about, never really sleeping at the same time as you due to his large amounts of work he took on. It was to the point he would drift off into a dreamless sleep on his desk. Not that you could really do anything about it with his stubborn view point, so you kept to yourself and went to your bed without him. Well, went to bed also meant brining a pillow and blanket down to Asas work place and sleeping the the chair. You just wanted to feel your boyfriends presence before you fell asleep. He only looked up for a few before looking back down at the scatter of papers, shuffling though some before writing. You made yourself as comfortable as you could get, sighing as you let your body relax. The sleep came easier than expected, the few sniffles sounding in the room letting you know Asa was still there. It was oddly comforting. A flash of worry did strike you, the worry that your sleep talking would annoy him, causing you to have to leave. But it was worth the few bits of it. Asa sighed, running his hand down his face as he battled the tired feeling back. Lending back in his seat, he crossed his arms while looking up to you in the leather chair. Without a warning, a question was asked out loud from you, “What color box would I get if I was one of your butterflies?” He tilted his head, furrowing his eyebrows before humoring himself by answering, “Red. To match the original one.” It seems like your dream had answered for you, the words quiet on your tongue as your chest arose slowly. Asa took in another breath before rising to his feet, walking over to you. He brought a hand up to your resting face, his thumb brushing your drink. What a beautiful butterfly you would be.

[prouvaireafterdark]

Home - 3x10 Coda

Here’s the tender couch sex I promised! 😘

Also on AO3!

***

“I’m home.”

Alex feels those words in his chest the moment Michael says them, tightening around his heart like a warm embrace. For a moment he thinks he’s going to cry, his eyes beginning to prick with unshed tears, but the sudden touch of Michael’s hand against his neck, the gentle, fleeting brush of his thumb along his cheek ground him in the moment.

His eyes flutter open once more to meet Michael’s gaze. The love he sees reflected back at him is overwhelming in its own right, but Alex catches understanding there too, as if for once Michael knows exactly what he’s feeling, how much those words mean to him. His grip on Michael’s thigh tightens involuntarily at the emotion welling up inside him, but Michael gives him barely a second to dwell on it before he leans in and closes the space between them.

This feels different too, Alex thinks as Michael kisses him, each press of his lips firm and unhurried. He’d grown used to stolen moments and frantic kisses, the two of them taking what they needed from each other with an almost violent fervor, never knowing when—or if—they would get the chance to be together again. 

But there’s no urgency to Michael’s kisses now, no clock ticking down in Alex’s head when Michael knocks their noses together as he finds a new angle. It’s intoxicating—this idea that neither of them is going anywhere, that they have all the time in the world—and Alex sinks into that blissful feeling, his world narrowing to all the places Michael is touching him. 

Alex revels in the softness of Michael’s lips against his mouth and the firm pressure of his fingers curling around the back of his neck. His hand flies up from Michael’s thigh to grip at his bicep, urging him closer, and Michael deepens the kiss, the tip of his tongue teasing Alex’s bottom lip. Alex opens for him eagerly, welcoming everything Michael is offering until they’re both dizzy with it. 

They keep their eyes closed as they break the kiss to catch their breath, neither one of them willing to come fully out of the moment they’re sharing.

“I’ve been waiting a long time to hear you say that,” Alex murmurs, the words flowing out of him before he even gives himself permission to speak. 

“I’m sorry I took so long,” Michael sighs in response, his fingers squeezing lightly at the back of Alex’s neck as he tips his head forward to bring their brows together.

It hurts Alex to hear the guilt edging into Michael’s voice and he shakes his head, opening his eyes as he pulls back just enough to get a look at him. 

“Don’t be,” Alex tells him, reaching up to cup Michael’s cheek. “You needed time. We both did.”

“Still,” he confesses, tilting his head into Alex’s touch. “I wish I didn’t waste so much time.”

Alex swallows roughly before he reminds him, “We have the rest of our lives. Isn’t that enough?”

Michael’s eyes turn glassy as he nods, the corners of his lip twitching upward in a fond smile as he stares back at Alex like he’s the center of his universe. 

“Yeah,” Michael whispers, shifting his head to press a tender kiss to Alex’s palm.

Alex leans in to kiss him properly, close-mouthed and gentle. He stays in Michael’s space when he pulls back and takes a deep, shaky breath before he says three words he’s been waiting over a decade to say.

“I love you,” Alex tells him, stroking his thumb tenderly over Michael’s cheekbone.  

The smile Michael gives him is nothing short of radiant as he says, “I know,” and brushes his nose playfully against Alex’s.

It’s somehow exactly and yet not at all what Alex is expecting to hear, and a laugh bursts forth from deep within his chest, happy tears leaking from his eyes as he asks, incredulously, “Did you just ‘Han Solo’ me?” 

“Maybe,” Michael laughs, and Alex can feel his smile as Michael leans forward to press one soft kiss to the corner of his mouth, and then another. “But I love you too, Alex,” he adds seriously as he pulls away to wipe at the tears that have escaped down his cheeks. “I’ve always loved you.”

Alex closes his eyes as he smiles and lets those words sink in, fairly certain his heart has never felt so full.

“And if you’ll let me,” Michael continues after a beat, his voice smooth as bourbon as he slides his fingers up and into Alex’s hair, “I’d really like to show you how much.”

Alex takes Michael’s meaning immediately and his eyes flash open to look at him. They’ve been very intentionally taking things slow, not wanting to ruin this fresh start they’ve carved for themselves by falling into the old, toxic patterns of their youth, but it feels like they’ve reached a milestone in more ways than one today and Alex is more than ready to take the next step if that’s what Michael wants.

“Oh yeah?” he asks, quirking his head to the side with a coy smile on his lips even as his heart begins to race. 

“Mhmm,” Michael hums, his eyes dropping suggestively down to Alex’s mouth.

“And how do you intend to do that?” Alex asks, a little breathless now as the tension continues to mount between them.

Michael smiles before he leans in to kiss him again, harder this time, bringing back a bit of that fire Alex has grown so used to. He can feel it catch low in his belly, burning hotter with every flick of Michael’s tongue into his mouth, every playful tug on the ends of his hair, until it feels as if he’s being consumed, burned from the inside out. He needs more, needs everything, and it isn’t much longer that Alex reaches for the edge of Michael’s flannel to push it off his shoulders. 

Michael gets the picture pretty quickly and disentangles his arms from Alex’s neck to help him, breaking the kiss just long enough to hastily toss it and his tank top somewhere across the room before he reaches for the hem of Alex’s sweater to do the same. Alex lifts his arms for him and soon enough they’re both shirtless and panting, their hands seeking whatever bare skin they can reach. 

Alex takes Michael by the sides of his face and kisses him again, his fingers sinking into his soft curls. He slowly starts to lean back, pulling Michael with him until they’re both lying on the couch, Alex’s head cushioned by a pillow against the armrest and Michael cradled between his spread thighs.

His bare skin feels like heaven against his chest and Alex groans at the friction on his rapidly hardening cock as Michael settles on top of him and rolls his hips forward. He slides his hands into the back pockets of Michael’s jeans and encourages him to do it again, grateful he’d thought to take his leg off and change into something more comfortable when Michael mixed their drinks earlier.

Michael licks boldly into Alex’s mouth as their hard cocks grind together through the fabric of their pants, kissing him until the pressure inside him builds so much that Alex starts to feel like he’s about to pop like warm champagne if Michael doesn’t stop teasing him.

“Michael,” he gasps between kisses, his voice trembling and urgent, and Michael stops for just a moment, their foreheads touching as they catch their breath.

“I know,” Michael pants, as if he too can feel the desperate, cloying need that has Alex in its grip. “Wanna move this to your bedroom?” 

Alex shakes his head and draws his left leg higher up Michael’s side, keeping him right where he is. “If you make me move from this spot, I’ll never forgive you.”

Michael huffs a laugh against his mouth. “Well,” he says, “wouldn’t be the first time I fucked you on a couch.” 

Alex groans and sinks his teeth into Michael’s plush bottom lip, his cock throbbing in his sweats. His skin feels tight and hot all over just thinking about it—Michael working him open right here and sliding inside him, taking him apart more thoroughly than anyone else could ever hope to.

“Is your lube in that nightstand?” Michael asks suddenly, interrupting Alex’s thoughts as he jerks his head toward his open bedroom door, where Alex knows without looking that Michael can see the lefthand side of his bed.

“Yeah,” Alex nods. “Top drawer. Condoms are in there too.”

The hand in Alex’s hair disappears as Michael reaches out and pulls the top drawer of Alex’s nightstand open with his telekinesis. It takes a second of concentration, like Michael is searching for the right shapes with his mind, before a bottle of lube and a box of condoms levitate out of the open drawer, into the living room, and onto the coffee table just within reach.

Alex laughs, leaning his head back against the armrest of the couch. 

“What?” Michael laughs back. “Did you want me to get up?”

“No,” Alex replies, still smiling as he tightens his legs around his waist. “I like you right where you are.”

Michael swoops in to give him a short, wet kiss on the lips before he starts charting a course down the side of his neck, pausing to linger over a sensitive spot on his way down the column of his throat. 

“You trying to mark me up?” Alex asks after a soft moan escapes him, his fingers tightening in Michael’s hair.

“Mhmm,” Michael confirms shamelessly as he nips his skin between his teeth.  “You never let me when we were kids.”

“No, I didn’t,” Alex agrees. He’d always wanted Michael to, but, well— “I was always too worried my dad would see.” 

“You want me to stop?” Michael asks, lifting his head to look at him, his curls hanging adorably over his eyes.

“No, go ahead,” Alex encourages him, stretching his head back to expose his neck like an offering, a soft, indulgent smile on his lips. “Feels good.”

Michael returns to his work with a smile Alex can feel against his skin. He licks and bites at Alex’s throat in turns, and Alex lets himself enjoy the feeling of it—the way it hurts, just a little, just enough for him to know he’ll wake up tomorrow morning with a mark Michael left him darkening his skin. It sends a thrill down his spine, makes him gasp as Michael sinks his teeth in just a little bit harder before he soothes the bite with his tongue.

That spot on Alex’s throat is pleasantly sore by the time Michael slides down the length of his chest, pressing wet, open-mouthed kisses everywhere he can reach as he curls his fingers into the waistband of Alex’s sweats. He pulls them smoothly down Alex’s thighs along with his underwear, shoving them off the side of the couch and onto the floor. 

Michael sits up to look appreciatively down at him then, eyes dark with want, and Alex can’t help but feel exposed, suddenly very aware of the way his hard cock is leaking against his hip and the wet trail Michael’s tongue left behind on his stomach still shines in the lamplight.

“You gonna keep staring at me all night?” Alex asks, reaching down to wrap his fingers around his cock. Michael tracks the movement hungrily and Alex slowly strokes himself from root to tip, putting on a show as he continues, “Or did you want to do something about this?”

The movement pushes a bead of precome out of his slit and heat spikes through him, anticipation curling low in his gut as he watches Michael lick his lips when it dribbles down his shaft. 

It doesn’t take much more encouragement than that. Michael lays his hands on Alex’s thighs, spreading them even further as he lowers his mouth to where Alex is stroking himself. He grunts as he flicks his tongue over the weeping head of Alex’s cock, his eyes fluttering closed as he swallows.

“Fuck, I’ve missed the way you taste,” Michael murmurs before he takes the head fully into his mouth and softly starts to suck.

It’s barely a moment before Michael tries to take him deeper, and Alex lets his hand slip all the way down to the base of his cock to let him, his head lolling back against the armrest as he moans long and deep. The warm, sucking heat of Michael’s mouth is almost too much and Alex is so distracted he doesn’t notice Michael has reached for the bottle of lube on the coffee table until he hears the distinctive sound of its cap snapping open. 

He feels Michael’s palm pushing against his left thigh next, nudging him to open his legs wider. Alex rests his foot on the edge of the coffee table as he lets Michael gently settle his residual limb over his shoulder to give him plenty of room. 

“Ready?” Michael asks as he pulls off of Alex’s cock, his lips red and slightly swollen. Alex wants to kiss him so badly, but he nods instead, not quite trusting his voice.

Michael’s fingers are slick when he rubs them over his hole, massaging over it a few times before he presses one inside. His other palm curls possessively around Alex’s right thigh and Alex releases his own cock to reach for it, threading their fingers together as Michael starts to lazily fuck him with one finger and then two.

He gasps when Michael grazes his prostate, his hips twitching involuntarily and forcing Michael’s fingers deeper inside of him. He can feel a smug smile spread across Michael’s mouth where he’s dropping soft, wet kisses on the sensitive skin of his inner thighs.

“There, huh?” Michael asks, as if he doesn’t know, as if he hasn’t spent hours—days, even—of his life taking Alex apart like this. He drags his fingers over that spot again, a little harder this time, drawing a moan from deep within Alex’s chest as pleasure lights up his spine. “That feel good, baby?”

“So good,” Alex pants, his chest rising and falling with heavy breaths. “Don’t stop.”

“Think I could make you come like this?” Michael asks, voice low and rough as gravel. “Nothing but my fingers inside you?”

“You could try,” Alex teases, shooting Michael a grin of his own.

Michael’s eyes darken as he looks up at him between his thighs and Alex wonders briefly if he’ll take him up on the challenge. 

“Maybe another time,” he says at last, withdrawing his fingers and pressing back in with a third, fucking Alex open even further. “I’d rather feel you come on my dick tonight.”

Jesus Christ, Alex thinks, groaning at Michael’s words as much as the sudden stretch of his hole around his fingers. He nearly sees stars as Michael curls them toward his navel, sliding them back out again until only the tips are holding him open before he screws them back inside. Alex closes his eyes and surrenders himself to Michael’s ministrations until sweat starts to break out over his skin and his cock is a drooling mess against his belly.

“Michael,” Alex moans, his grip on Michael’s fingers tightening as his need to come grows sharp and insistent. His head feels heavy as he lifts it off the armrest to look down at Michael through the vee of his thighs.

“Hm?” Michael asks, eyes still caught where Alex can feel him spreading his fingers wider inside him, testing the stretch of his hole.

“Please,” Alex begs, reaching down to grab Michael’s arm with his free hand, his sweat-slick fingers slipping along the skin of his wrist. “I need you.”

Michael doesn’t keep him waiting after that. He presses a soft kiss to his inner thigh before he rises up on his knees and withdraws his fingers as gently as he can. Alex misses Michael’s warmth as he stands up to kick off his jeans, but he’s back in an instant, kneeling between Alex’s legs and rolling a condom onto his cock.

Michael leans over him then, holding himself up with one hand as he slicks his cock with the other, and seconds later Alex feels the blunt head of it nudging against his hole. Alex curses softly as his body opens up around it, and Michael gives him a minute to get used to the stretch once he’s seated, his arms shaking with the effort to stay still as he hovers above him. 

Alex nods when he’s ready, tightening his legs around Michael’s waist encouragingly, and Michael slowly starts to rock forward, the leather couch squeaking with every move he makes. He fucks Alex a little deeper with each thrust until it really starts to feel good, his thick cock brushing Alex’s prostate just enough to keep him wanting more. 

Fuck, he’s missed this—how full he feels with Michael’s cock splitting him open, the sweet sounds Michael makes as he loses himself in Alex’s body, music to his ears. It’s beautiful, the way Michael makes him feel—good and right in a way he’s never experienced with anyone else he’s ever been with. Alex isn’t sure if he believes in fate, in events that are fixed and immutable, but in this moment he finds it hard to believe that it was anything other than destiny that brought him back into Michael’s arms.

Michael’s soft curls tickle his chest as he leans down to press tender kisses over his heart, and Alex can’t help but thread his fingers through his hair, his eyes drifting closed as he gives himself over to the sensation. He thinks he hears a buzzing sound, distant and muted, but it’s quickly drowned out by the pounding of his heart and the low moan he makes as Michael drives his hips forward again, and Alex strikes it from his mind, his whole world narrowing to the hot drag of Michael’s cock in and out of him and the subtle taste of himself he catches on his tongue as he tugs him blindly back up for a kiss. 

Michael can only maintain the measured, even pace he’s set for so long, his thrusts soon growing more rough and uncoordinated. Alex knows he must be close when he takes hold of Alex’s thighs suddenly and pushes his legs up higher, nearly bending him in half before he slips his right hand between their bodies and wraps it around Alex’s cock. 

The change in angle and steady friction on his cock have Alex keening and on the edge in seconds, his hands scrambling for purchase on any part of Michael he can reach. The needy, whimpering moans Michael rips from his chest with every roll of his hips get higher and higher, the pleasure mounting inside him until it finally, finally crests, his balls drawing up tight as he comes, jerking messily in Michael’s grip.

“That’s it, baby,” Michael says, fucking him through it with deep thrusts and a firm hand on his cock.  “Just like that.”

Alex is nearing the point of overstimulation, his thighs trembling on either side of Michael’s hips, by the time Michael shoves his cock as deep inside of him as he can get and shudders as he comes, his face buried in the crook of Alex’s neck as he rides out his orgasm. 

“Fuck,” Michael groans, going totally boneless as he collapses onto Alex’s chest seconds later. Alex takes his weight happily and runs his fingers through his curls. “You think it’s ever gonna stop feeling this good?”

Alex buries the soft laugh that bubbles from his chest into Michael’s curls. “No way,” he says. “I’m sure you’ll still be blowing my mind when we’re eighty.”

“Eighty, huh?” Michael asks, a playful smile as he lifts his head up to look at Alex’s face. “You gonna keep me around that long?”

“Mhmm,” Alex hums without hesitation, pressing a kiss to Michael’s flushed forehead. “I told you: I like you right where you are.”

[tsarbomba567]

The Anti-Cultist Doctor

Tw Warnings: Blood, death, abuse, branding

The evening sun shone through the window, illuminating the sea blue bedroom. On the bed, a Serpentine stirs from his slumber, opening his eyes to check on the digital clock on the oak nightstand. 6:00 p.m., he observed as he got out of bed, stretching his tired body as he left his room and headed to the living room.

" … And in other news: The director of the Ninjago City Aquarium, along with several lobbyists and businessmen, have been arrested following a probe into Aquarium finances that revealed that they were embezzling funds put aside for upgrading their security systems. This became evident after the theft of one of the aquarium's rare Electro-Cobrai being stolen during the night one year ago. That initial investigation -" ''Good evening, Gideon," Toby greeted from the open kitchen, tearing the snake's attention from the TV as the human began to plate the two's dinner. The Serpentine's mouth began to water as he saw the man dish out broccoli, rice, mashed potatoes and two cooked chicken breasts onto the plates. "I see that the karate and ninpō sessions tired you out too?" Toby inquired as he took the plates to the dining table, while Gideon took two glasses and filled them with water. "Yeah, it was particularly intense today," the Electro-Cobrai stated as he carried the glasses to the table, sitting down to face his friend. "I could tell. You immediately got a shower and then took a nap the moment we got home," the man remarked as he cut into the chicken with his knife and fork, while the snake began to eat his broccoli.

As they ate, a stray thought entered the Serpentine's mind. "Hey Toby?" he asked, causing the hungry human to look up at him as they ate some rice. "What is it Gideon?" he responded, watching his friend take a bite from one of the chicken breasts. "You know how you interviewed me about my history two months ago? You never told me about yourself. I was wondering if you could divulge about your past." The Electro-Cobrai watched as the human male began to grow tense, which only served to further Gideon's interest. "Uhh … I don't know, Gideon. I don't feel comfortable detailing my … past," he admitted, reaching for his glass and taking a sip of water. The snake looked on as his friend became more anxious by the minute, guilt washing over him. "Hey man, I didn't mean to make you upset-" "No, no. You … deserve to know," Toby conceded, as he consumed some of his mashed potatoes. "Just keep it between the two of us." The Electro-Cobrai simply nodded, which relieved the human as he took another bite of his rice.

-------------------------------------

[I was born to Michael and Emily Thompson in Ignacia. At first, it seemed like a picturesque family, but as I grew up, that began to change for the worst. For a start, my father lost his job as a miner after being replaced by automated machines which were more efficient and safe to operate. This led him to begin drinking, which caused mom and dad to fight, sometimes verbally, others physically. I can remember hiding in the basement as the two argued with each other. This eventually culminated with a divorce that saw my mother getting custody of 15 year old me. Unfortunately, one month after the divorce trial, my mom died in a car crash with a semi-truck while I was at school, and my dad got custody transferred to him. The police thought that he was the culprit, but it turns out that he was applying for a job as an office worker for Borg Industries as a technician during that time.]

[After the tragedy he attempted to curb his drinking problem, to try and become a better dad, but his efforts failed and he began to abuse me directly. By 17, I had gotten used to his mistreatment, being able to catch punches and bottles thrown by Michael; to be honest, I did become depressed and taciturn during this time. It was in this period that I became interested in history and wanting to be a doctor, so after eight years of college I got my Bachelor in Medicine; I also took martial arts classes during my college years. I was always skeptical of history, especially when it came to the First Serpentine War. I felt that the textbooks given to us were heavily swinging in favor of the Elemental Alliance, since they demonized the Serpentine, accusing them of doing all sorts of nasty things, while the Alliance were cast in a good light, who acted like they committed no atrocities at all. I found it all hard to believe, since my dad - when he was sober - always told me that all sides in war commit crimes, whether it was an accident or intentional. This skepticism made me believe - correctly - believe that the Serpentine are real, whereas almost everyone else thought that they were simply a myth or evil demons of a long lost past. This also had the net effect of me being more sympathetic to the Serpentine once they were released, which eventually served me well when my curiosity got the best of me.]

The sun was overhead as the young man navigated the acid lakes and muddy islands of the Toxic Bogs. Video camera in hand, he swung on vines and balanced on logs as he made his way towards a sighting of green, four-eyed snakes. If the rumors are true, I'm going to show all of Ninjago that the Serpentine are real and not mythical creatures, he fancied as he took cover behind a log, hearing voices in the distance as he hit record on his camera. " … Who was that samurai guy?" a Venomari hissed to the other nine as they patrolled the toxic bog, carelessly walking in the acidic water with impunity. "We were about to kill those ninja when that bastard showed up out of nowhere and chased us all off." As the leading Venomari ranted on, the human kept recording the snakes, having to peer out of his cover to get a good view of them. " … And now we're told to patrol the Toxic Bogs for the foreseeable future while the rest of the tribe leaves to regroup with the rest of the Serpentine. WHAT A FUCKING WASTE OF TIME!!!" the snake raged, kicking some mud unknowingly in the human's direction, which hit the lens of the video camera. "Fuck," the man silently swore as he hunkered behind the log, frantically cleaning the lens as the Serpentine began to argue with each other. 

He managed to get most of the mud off the camera lens, and was about to go back to covertly filming the Venomari when the branch he was holding on to broke, startling the snakes. "What the hell was that?" one of them anxiously observed as they slowly moved onto the human's position, who had put down their camera to free his hands for the now inevitable fight. The young Venomari zeroed in on the man's location, and upon peering over the log saw the human male, who stood up for the others to see. "Hum-ACK!" the Venomari managed to scream out before the human punched them in the throat, quickly followed up by a strike in the chest, causing them to drop to the ground in a coughing fit, their compatriots staring at the human in shock at how quickly they were able to incapacitate the young scout. "Attack!" the commander ordered, and the other Serpentine charged towards the human, who had now picked up the downed snake's weapon. The human began to hold his own, dodging the Venomari's venom and most of their attacks, while he was able to wound the rest of the ten man patrol, even debilitating three more during their tussel. Eventually, the head Serpentine managed to knock out the human with a blow to the head, the man falling to the ground unconscious.

[I was knocked out cold. I don't know what exactly happened after I was rendered unconscious, but from what I would learn, the small group of Venomari abandoned their patrol and took me to their general, who happened to be in an abandoned and unused portion of the Ninjago Metro at the time.]

A headache awaited the man as he slowly woke up, only to find that he's in an abandoned passenger carriage instead of the Toxic Bogs. Looking down, he finds that he's hog-tied with rope, sitting in one of the compartments of the train coach as he hears footsteps and what sounded like scales scraping against metal inch closer towards him. "Secure the train car. Let no one else enter," the staff-wielding Serpentine ordered his troops, who then took up positions in and around the carriage to guard their leader. The general, now confident that the perimeter has been locked down, opened the door to the captive human, who looked on in awe as the Serpentine rested their staff on the wall as they closed the door and window blind. The snake then sat down in the seat opposite of the man, placing a sack next to them as the two silently stared at each other.

The general finally broke the silence, leaning forwards and stated, "Do you know why you're here?" " … No?" the human gulped as the green snake huffed, not convinced by his answer as their four eyes stared directly into the man's soul. "The reason you're here is that you not only trespassed on Serpentine land, Venomari land to be specific, but you also had the gall to attack a small Venomari force patrolling the Toxic Bog for intruders," the Venomari explained with a hint of anger in their voice. "And that's not all," they added, reaching into the sack and pulling out a slightly muddied video camera, much to the human's shock. He watched as the general turned it on and began to operate it for a minute before placing it on the table in-between them, the LCD display facing the two. The Serpentine then played a five minute video which showed the human stalking the Venomari patrol, cleaning the lens after it got muddy, only to unintentionally alert them to his presence and tussle with them, fighting them for two minutes until he got knocked out by the Serpentine captain. After regaining their strength, the patrol took the human and his camera to the general, turning off the camera sometime during their journey to the abandoned Metro station.

Once the video ended, the human shuddered as the Venomari turned towards the human and again asked, "So, do you know why you're here?" " … Yes I do," he quavered as the snake leaned back into their seat, "But should we formally introduce ourselves before I explain myself?" The Serpentine contemplated the offer before finally giving in, "Alright. My name is Acidicus, general and leader of the Venomari tribe. And yours?" "Toby Thompson, doctor of Ignacia and black belt in karate," the human responded, making the snake cock his head in curiosity. "Hmm. That would elucidate how you were able to effortlessly incapacitate one of the scouts, as well as take on the other nine warriors with relative ease," Acidicus remarked as he turned off the video camera and put it back into the sack. "Now for why I trespassed into Venomari territory," Toby began, "For a long time, the humans of Ninjago dismissed the existence of the Serpentine as either mythical creatures or evil savages that deserved to be locked up in their Tombs. Unlike them, I didn't believe that nonsense, always harboring the feeling that the Serpentine tribes were real. So when I heard rumors of humanoid, snake-like creatures roaming the Toxic Bogs, I didn't hesitate to bring the video camera with me to get footage of Serpentine that I would use as irrefutable proof of your existence."

The Serpentine general was in disbelief: "The humans regard the Serpentine as mythical creatures?" he mumbled as the human's interest only grew. "I'm afraid so," he admitted, "Though I expect this view to eventually disintegrate in time. To be honest with you, I feel that this is because the Elemental Alliance didn't want the people to question their narrative of the Serpentine War, a narrative that I find whitewashed and riddled with malicious fallacies." The Venomari seemed to have completely forgotten that he was supposed to be interrogating the human, now listening in on Toby's rant. "Something my father told me was that, in war, both sides commit atrocities and war crimes of varying scales. It's just that the winning side whitewash their crimes, presenting themselves as the good and righteous side; the losing side, meanwhile, is demonized and have their horrific crimes and atrocities exaggerated - even forged - to further paint them in a bad light." 

The human paused to collect his thoughts, only to be interrupted by a curious Acidicus who blurted, "Do you know what happened after the end of war? After the Serpentine were sealed in their tombs?" Toby was caught off guard by the general's comment, yet nevertheless he responded, "After the end of the war, it seemed as if the humans had enraged either the spirit of the FSM or some other divine being, since both a plague and famine simultaneously ravaged Ninjago. The plague killed around 20% of the post-war human population, while the famine - which occured due to widespread crop failures - caused the remaining population to shrink an additional 5-10%. And if both of those weren't bad enough, the economy was in shambles, leading to 15 years of the worst economic depression in recorded history. It … it wasn't a good time to be alive, especially since there's some evidence that the humans went to war with each other for resources for five years, leading to the complete collapse of a nation whose name and existence is now lost to time. Though I can say with some certainty that what the entombed Serpentine went through was probably worse." 

The now dismayed Venomari general gulped as he nodded in uncomfortable approval, trying to find the words to convey the conditions inside the tombs. "It was atrocious," he initially whispered, before regaining his composure and added, "There was some food, like small animals and plant life growing in the tomb, but other than that, there was no real food. Some died from hunger, while others - in their desperation - cannibalized their fellow tribesmen, whether dead or alive. The atmosphere in the tomb led to a decrease in birth rates, and even then some of the eggs didn't hatch, the vipers inside dying for a multitude of reasons." He paused, taking a deep breath as his equanimity faltered once more, a shiver going down his spine. "Out of all the tribes, the Anacondrai got the worst of it. To sum it up: Pythor is the last of his tribe, having to eat his brethren to survive. From what he told me, there were no animals that roamed in his tomb, neither were there any edible plants that could provide them sustenance; this is probably due to the hot, arid climate of the Sea of Sand. The lack of food drove the hungry Serpentine to first attempt to ration the dead and any of those they chose to sacrifice, but that eventually broke down, leading them to fend for themselves."

"The worst part about all of this is that the Pythor I met was a completely different Serpentine than the one me and the other current generals were friends with. Before the war, he was a brave, kind and loving Anacondrai who had a mate named Pandora, and the two of them got married and planned to have kids, but the war put that off indefinitely, especially since she was thrown off a cliff by Garmadon. To make it worse, his mother Olivia Chumsworth was killed in battle by Wu, and the leader of the Anacondrai at the time - his father Arcturus Chumsworth - was sent to the Cursed Realm along with the other Anacondrai generals, which I can only assume just utterly and completely broke the snake. Now, when me and the other generals discussed our plan for revenge against the humans for imprisoning us, we quickly realized that the Anacondrai we once knew was replaced by a cowardly, manipulative megalomaniac who would have these soliloquies about killing Wu and Garmadon in the most grotesque ways, even talking about using the kid Lloyd as a tool to drag the two out of hiding. I - We secretly fear for his sanity and safety, especially since he's now calling for the Great Devourer to be released against the humans for revenge against the Serpentine's entombment. I … We fear that his plan will backfire and cause the giant serpent to consume all of Ninjago, both Serpentine and human, yet we keep our concerns to ourselves; Pythor's plan is popular with almost all of the Serpentine, and we fear voicing our opposition will get us deposed." Acidicus finished, shuddering as another chill went down his spine, Toby perturbed not only by the appalling conditions of the Serpentine Tombs, but also the fate of the technical extinction of the Anacondrai, their last living tribesmen now reduced to a madman hell bent on revenge against those who destroyed his life.

The two sat in silence as they heard the door open to reveal a beaten and bruised Venomari warrior with two black eyes on the left side of their face. "Acidicus, we have a problem," they gasped, catching their breath as the general turned his attention to the tired Serpentine. "The Serpentine tribes fought amongst each other after making inflammatory remarks about each other. We managed to catch all except one of the Ninja, who proceeded to free his friends and escape." The Venomari leader became visibly irritated upon hearing the news, groaning as he responded, "Those damn Ninja. Tell the others that I'll join up with them later after finishing some … personal business." The warrior nodded his head and left the train car, with Acidicus waiting for the Serpentine to be out of earshot before he turned back to the human. "Listen here Toby," he whispered, "I'm willing to let you go, but in return I want you to come over from time to time to heal my men. So what do you say?" The man looked at the Venomari contemplating his offer before murmuring, "Yes. I'll have to take time out of my week, but that can be easily arranged." The general's mood brightened at hearing Toby's approval as he cut the restraints around their legs and hands as he mumbled, "That's good to hear then." Acidicus then gave the human his camera back as he whispered, "I'll have a Venomari disguised outside Ignacia to give you more details about where we'll set camp. As for now, it would be wise to leave as quietly as possible." The human man simply nodded as he left the abandoned metro station, leaving through the sewers to get back home.

[The day after getting captured and released by Acidicus, the Venomari agent outside of my hometown informed me that the Serpentine had found the Lost City of Ouroboros, and that Pythor had been proclaimed King of the Serpentine after winning in a Slither Pit against the other generals. However, they reported that the tribes were actually living in an underground fortress built underneath the Constrictai Tomb. They told me that while the Venomari would provide me safe passage into the fortress to treat their injured and sick, they admitted that the other tribes wouldn't be too kind to me if they found me. For two days, I was able to sneak into the sanctum and treat the Venomari; by now the Serpentine had got into scraps with not only the Ninja, but also with humans during raids to gather more supplies, whether it be food or medical equipment. This all changed when the third day came: As I made my way to the fortress, I felt that I was being watched, at times catching glimpses at what I thought were floating purple eyes following me; I didn't think much of it at the time. When I got to the entrance, I heard something behind me, and  I saw an Anacondrai - Pythor himself - standing behind me. I was lost in awe looking at the Serpentine as he swung his staff at me, knocking me out cold.]

[When I came to, I was in a bed inside the sanctum, being watched by a Venomari who was relieved to see me awake. They then reported how Pythor had been following me after personally interrogating the Venomari agent outside Ignacia the night before, and that he and the other generals argued with what to do with me. Skales wanted to hypnotize me so that I could be a sleeper agent amongst the humans and Ninja; Acidicus wanted the other generals to give me a chance to both prove my worth and become a human ally; Fangtom wanted to bite me and make me a Turned, adding me to their ranks; Skalidor wanted make me his stress ball; and Pythor just wanted to kill me, though from what he insinuated, it sounded like he wanted to eat my dead body for dinner. Thankfully, Acidicus was the loudest voice in the room, managing to convince the other generals to give me a chance, a chance that I spent my heart and soul using. I taught the Serpentine modern medicine and how to use modern medical equipment; I healed Serpentine from all tribes, excluding Pythor who didn't want my hands on him; I taught them how to ration food and to grow their own crops, like rice for instance; and I gave them karate lessons. By the time they were ready to release the Devourer, the Serpentine tribes and their generals held a more benign view of me, especially Pythor, though he seemed more neutral than friendly. It seemed that the Serpentine liked the fact that they now had a human who understood their point of view, even if they didn't agree with their plan to release the Great Devourer.]

[When the Devourer was released and Pythor and Wu got eaten by the beast, me and the Serpentine took shelter in the Fangpyre Tomb. During the ensuing carnage, Fangdom - Fangtom's brother - tripped and fell on me, accidentally biting me in the process. At first we thought that it was a dry bite - Fangpyre can bite without releasing their venom - but later on I began to transform, which required Fangtom's intervention to cure me with the Fangpyre antivenom. When the dust finally settled after the Devourer's death, I rushed towards Ninjago City after remembering that my dad was working in the metropolis that day. The Serpentine generals tried - and failed - dissuade me from leaving the tomb, concerned for my well-being after I began to divulge about my personal life, especially after they learned about Michael's abusive tendencies. Nevertheless, I rushed to find my dad amidst the Devourer's path of destruction, seeing many injured and dead along the way. I eventually found him on the sidewalk next to the destroyed parking garage pinned under some rubble, having just left the building to walk to his job. After freeing him from the debris and discovering that his left arm was broken, we made our way to the Ninjago City Hospital, where I - along with several other doctors - were able to realign the bones in his left arms via surgery.]

[After several days of treating humans injured during the Devourer's rampage, the Overlord came and infected Ninjago with Dark Matter. To be honest, I don't remember anything from when I was corrupted; one moment I'm treating patients, the next I'm in the streets carrying a scalpel. When Lloyd had finally beaten the Overlord, ridding the island of Dark Matter in the process, everyone just went back to what they were originally doing, albeit now confused. After four days in the hospital, dad was discharged, going back home to Ignacia for 56 days for his arm to completely heal. His arm now healed, Michael spared me from his abuse while he went back to work, though it was during this time that he overheard about the Anacondrai Cult via two covert Cultists. I didn't know it at the time, but my father joined the cult, though I was about to learn that fact in the worst way possible.]

A blue SUV rolled into the driveway, parking next to the black subcompact car. A tired Toby got out of his car to see his father sitting in a chair on the porch, staring at the farmers in the rice fields labor away. The man's son watched in indifference as he went to go inside, only for his dad to grab him by his arm. "Son, would you mind sitting down with me?" Michael requested, his gaze now locked on his son, who contemplated his father's order. Toby huffed in defeat as he took a seat next to Michael, suppressing all visible signs of discomfort. "I know that we have a … turbulent past together, and I know that you're stressed from your work at the Ninjago City Hospital -" "What are you getting at?" the young man spat, fire in his eyes as he sneered at his father, who was swallowing his fright as he worked out his response. "What I'm saying is that you're stressed, burnt out from spending day after day, week after week, treating patients injuries by the Devourer's wrath. So, I was wondering about taking a vacation to ease your mind," explained as he sunk into his chair. Toby pondered Michael's offer, skeptical if his father was being genuine or just duping him yet again. On the other hand, the doctor was exhausted from hours of running round the hospital, tirelessly treating numerous patients as his stress grew heavier over the days. Maybe this is the big break I need, he mused as he took a deep breath of the crisp air. 

"Sure. So where are we going?" he inquired, his dad seemingly surprised at his son's response as he got up from his seat. "Well, it's an island west of Ninjago. I managed to get an invitation to go there after overhearing two men talk about it. They were happy to let me come, said it was a nice and beautiful place," Michael revealed as he went for the door, before adding, "but they admitted that I would have to wait several days before getting the invite, since the men who own it aren't very welcoming of outsiders. Luckily, I was able to make reservations there to stay for a month and a half, that way the both of us could unwind." The gray-haired man entered the house, leaving the door open as his son sat on the porch, cerebrating his decision to accept his father's offer. "Why do I have the feeling that I'm going to regret this?" Toby muttered as he left his seat and went inside, closing the door behind him.

[The next day, the two of us packed our bags and set off for a small port on Ninjago's west coast, where my dad showed the ferryman our invitation to let us on. After getting on the boat, we set sail for the island, which I will admit is beautiful in its own right: It had mountains, waterfalls, forests, and a volcano, along with some arenas and a Grand Colosseum for combat, and the grand palace for where we would stay. As we entered the palace, I saw a wide variety of Anacondrai symbols decorating the place, and at the time I reasoned that the people who owned the island really liked the Anacondrai. After we checked in, Michael and I made our way to our decadent, allotted rooms in the guest house, where we would stay until it was time to get a good night's sleep.]

[Or at least, that's what should have happened.]

The room was dark and still, the blinds closed as Toby slept peacefully in his bed. The door was silently opened as several humans crept into the room, positioning themselves around the sleeping human. They then suddenly grabbed them, holding him while one gagged him with duct tape, another tearing his shirt off, a third putting a bag over his head as a fourth hogtied him. Toby jolted awake only to find himself restrained, gagged and unable to see as one of the kidnappers pulled on one of the books on the bookshelf, causing it to sink into the floor and reveal a secret passage. The men then carried the hostage down into the depths of the tunnel network, traversing until they reached the subterranean Anacondrai Temple. Instead of entering the main den, they turned right into one of the side passages, entering a room as the captors put Toby on a table face first, where they untied him only to put him in the table's restraints. They removed the bag over the man's head, who not only sees that he's in a tattoo parlor, but also his captors, who have a wide variety of snake-related tattoos.

He attempted to scream for help, but the duct tape over his mouth muffled his voice as the stationed tattoo artists prepared to start work on the unwilling human's back. "Don't start. All his squirming will ruin the mark," a familiar voice ordered the tattoo artist as the figure moved into view, revealing themself to be a gray-haired man in his mid-50s. "Hello, son," Michael greeted, sending shockwaves throughout Toby's mind; his gut feeling was right when he thought his father's offer was suspicious, and now he was going to pay the price for ignoring his instincts. "Prepare the hot iron," he instructed the captors, who hesitantly carried out his order as Michael grabbed a chair and placed it in front of his son. Taking a seat, Michael started, "You know, when I detailed how I got the invitation to come here, I was only partially lying. I did overhear two men talking about this island, but in reality they were also talking about the Anacondrai Cult situated here. You see, ever since I got the job at Borg Industries, I still felt that I could better, that somewhere out in this world was an opportunity for me to reach my full potential. So when I heard those two men talking about the Cult, my gut told me that I finally found my calling, and so I immediately went up to the gentlemen and expressed my willingness to apply. While they were more than excited to allow me into their ranks, they admitted that to even get on the island, one must have permission from the owner of the Island - Chen himself - to go to and from his abode." 

Michael paused to collect his thoughts, seeing the mixture of fear and anger in his son's eyes, before continuing, "Anyways, after a few days, I got permission to come to Chen's Island, where I didn't hesitate to get the Cult's insignia on my back." He pointed to the tattoo of a purple snake on one of the Cultists' backs, before turning back to Toby. "To be honest with you, he and Clouse were surprised by my willingness to immediately join their secret sect, yet nevertheless let me get the Anacondrai tattoo on my back. Now in the Cult, I could move freely to and from the island without needing Chen's permission. Still, I felt that it wouldn't be fair for only one of us to be in the sect, so I decided to get an invitation from Chen not for me, but for you. I knew that you wouldn't willingly join, so I deceived you into thinking that we were going on a little vacation to relax and unwind; to be fair, that was sort of another reason why I wanted us to come here."

After finishing explaining the truth to his son, one of the Cultists came up to the quinquagenarian with a nervous look on their face, asking, "Hey Michael, the iron is ready. Are … are you really sure about this? I mean, this is usually reserved as a severe punishment." The middle-aged man's gray eyes pierced into the anxious Cultist's soul, and without saying a word got his word across, with the anxious individual replying, "I understand sir." The Cultist left the two, coming back with a red-hot brand of the Cult's insignia as another manipulated the table to 45 degrees. The man with the brand stood behind the restrained adult to get a clear view of his back, only to remark, "I'm sorry for what I'm about to do." Toby screamed in muffled agony as the Cultist plunged the hot brand onto his back, burning the sect's symbol into the young man's back, leaving it for ten seconds before removing the iron. "Welcome to the Anacondrai Cult, Toby," the old man muttered in twisted approval, as all of the Cultists in the room - save for Michael - looked at the crying Toby in pity as they undid his restraints and took him to the medical ward. As they left, Toby looked back at his smug father, anger and rage ablaze in his eyes, a memory from his college years emerging from the back of his mind:

Right of the suprasternal notch, below the clavicle, lies the subclavian artery. If a serious injury to this artery isn't diagnosed and treated immediately, the patient will die as a result of excessive hemorrhaging.

[I was sent to the medical ward to recuperate from getting branded, taking around three weeks for it to heal, though a permanent scar is all that remained. During that time, the relationship between me and my father disintegrated, all the while those Cultists who passed me by pitied me for the situation I was dragged into. When the burn healed, I was sent back into the parlor to get my snake tattoo, where the artists used my scar as an outline to get the tattoo finished faster. With that now out of the way, I was now officially a member of the Anacondrai Cult, though some would suggest that true members come of their own accord. The rest of my time on Chen's Island consisted of me familiarizing myself with the underground tunnel network, accidentally bumping into Clouse's pet Anacondrai Serpent during my last day of my stay, who was surprisingly friendly to me. With our "vacation" over, we left for the mainland, where over the next five years Ninjago City was rebuilt with the most recent and advanced technologies at the time, during which I took all precautionary measures to hide my tattoo from prying eyes.]

[After reconstruction was completed, the Serpentine came out from their confinement in the Stone Army Vault to warn the humans about some "Golden Master" that threatens to take over Ninjago. Before I could even make contact with the Serpentine, the humans had already resealed them in the vault; the people believed that the Serpentine were threatening them, when in reality the snakes were trying to warn them about their visions of the Golden Master coming to enslave all of Ninjago. The Serpentine's treatment made me feel uneasy, especially since they've reformed themselves to be more friendly and peaceful. Nevertheless, their visions are proven to be true when the Digital Overlord returned with the Nindroids and Pythor at his side, with the Anacondrai only working with the Overlord because - like Garmadon - he was given a lucrative offer too good to be true; in other words, the Overlord deceived Pythor into working for him. As the Overlord began to put his plan into motion, I got distracted by a Serpentine patient - a Constrictai to be specific - who got severely injured in an anti-Serpentine attack, resulting in several lacerations and broken bones, as well as some broken fangs and chipped teeth. While I nursed the Constrictai back to health, I missed out on Pythor getting shrunk down to the size of a rat, all the while Zane defeating the Golden Master by sacrificing himself. After I finished healing the Serpentine, I got a call from my dad, telling me that Chen has made the call to all Cultists to come to his island, meaning that the two of us would have to return to the sect's haven once more. Knowing that I had no choice, I went with my father to the damn island.]

[Once there, we learned of Chen's plan to become Anacondrai: One year from then, he was going to host the Tournament of Elements, where all of the Elemental Masters would compete with one another to win a massive cash prize. In reality, the rigged competition was a ploy to steal the powers of all the Elemental Masters, and after imprisoning them, we would get the essence of a true Anacondrai - in our case Pythor - to become fake Anacondrai. While the spell would immediately turn us into Anacondrai, the Anacondrai essence would make the spell permanent. Once the spell was complete, a small force of about 250 warriors would get on a boat of noodle trucks, from which they would land on the mainland to capture strategic ports and beachheads for the other 1,000 men. Meanwhile, Chen's 250 spies on the mainland would wreak havoc amongst the armies of Ninjago, weakening them enough for the Cultists to decisively crush them in battle.]

[To be honest, the whole plan seemed to be backwards, since Chen and Clouse were the ones that started the First Serpentine War, and that led to a significant loss of Serpentine life, with the Anacondrai being wiped out to one member; it all seemed counterproductive to me. Nevertheless, we trained for one year for the big day, during which I met other Cultists like me, who had either joined the sect against their will or initially joined but now are second guessing their membership. There were about 25 of us if you counted me, and much to the annoyance of all the other loyal Cultists, the people that made up our troublesome little group became friends with one another. Once the Tournament began, I met one of the Cult's blacksmiths - a green-haired man named Petr Horník - whose family's allegiance to the Anacondrai during the First Serpentine War had rewarded them with the knowledge of how to produce Anacondrai Blades. The man pitied me for how my father essentially dragged me into the sect against my will, and was willing to forge an Anacondrai Blade of my choice for free. I chose a machete-styled Anacondrai Blade, and he got to work on the weapon, which only took the length of the Tournament of Elements to complete.]

[Now with my new weapon, Chen had almost all of the Elemental Powers in his staff, and knowing that he would need Pythor if the Anacondrai spell was to be permanent, so he sent a small infiltration force - headed by my father - to Ninjago to kidnap Pythor from Kryptarium Prison. While they prepared, the Elemental Masters managed to break out, killing Clouse's pet snake Karma in the process and destroying the staff. They then proceeded to trash all means of transportation on the island, not knowing that the vast majority of the Cult's ships and other vehicles were on a nearby island also owned by Chen. Nevertheless, the Ninja left the island to find Pythor before the Cultists, and while they got to Kryptarium Prison first, Michael's group managed to break into the prison and steal the Anacondrai, getting away via helicopter. When they arrived, the Elemental Masters had control over the surface of Chen's Island, while the Cult managed to hold their grip over the underground tunnels. Michael's group managed to deliver  Pythor - who was small and in a jar - to Chen, but not before I heard the others raise concerns that the leader of their little expedition might be too violent, since he killed one of the prison's security guards by caving their skull in with their own baton. It seemed that their concerns fell on deaf ears, since it was time for the ritual to commence, which meant that a company of warriors had to prepare to invade Ninjago ahead of the main forces. So while the Elemental Masters went back into the underground labyrinth to disrupt the ritual, my dad - under Chen's orders - took me and the "Troublesome Ones" to the island's now cleared port, where we boarded a ship containing noodle trucks, waiting for the spell to be completed.]

Toby waited outside the truck with his father, the rest of his friends already inside the back. They were waiting for Chen's ritual to be complete so that they could leave for the mainland, creating beachheads for the rest of the army to use in the invasion. Looking up, he saw the decoy ship, filled with empty noodle trucks to be used as decoys to distract the enemy forces. As he looked down at his watch to check the time, he and everyone on board began to flow a blinding white, and once the light subsided they found that they were now fake Anacondrai. For the 31 year old man, he was now a piebald Anacondrai, while his 60 year old dad was now an Anacondrai with a white head and hands. Knowing the ritual was complete, both men rushed for the driver's seat, with Toby managing to get into the vehicle before Michael. The old man slithered into the passenger seat, annoyed that he's not driving as the two ships honked their horns as they departed for the Ninjago mainland. 

The ride there was silent save for the sound of the sea, the boat gently in the water. Their little platoon was tasked with securing Ninjago Harbor to allow a company of Cultists to march on Ninjago City itself. The atmosphere in the cabin was tense as their ship landed on a beach several miles from the metropolis, the trucks scattering across Ninjago as Toby began to drive for the city's port. As he drove closer, a thought brewing in his mind managed to come out of his mouth, asking his father, "Is this what you wanted, dad? To work for an insane megalomaniac who wants to become the very Anacondrai that he has essentially driven into extinction?" Michael was blindsided by his son's inflammatory question, only to retort, "Hey! Chen and his Anacondrai Cult gave me a new purpose in life, unlike that damn mundane job at Borg Industries!" Toby chuckled at his father's response, amused at how his father is acting like an alcoholic despite the fact never touched a beer in years. "Funny," he scoffed, "You're just as violent and irrational as you were when you were drinking all those years ago." 

This remark seemingly ignited the tension in the truck as the two began to bicker and argue with one another. Toby seemed to grow increasingly irritated as they got closer to their target, his friends in the back growing increasingly worried at the ongoing shouting match in the cabin. As they reached the entrance to the harbor, Toby suddenly stepped on the brakes with the end of his tail, an action which only enraged his father. "WHY THE FUCK ARE YOU STOPPING?!" Michael spat, his son unresponsive as he simply just stared blankly ahead. The old Cultist was about to ridicule the driver when he spotted something in the right side view mirror: A small group of Serpentine running towards them. The old man swiftly turned to face Toby, roaring, "YOU FUCKING FOOL! YOU'RE GOING TO GET US ALL KILLED, YOU LILY-LIVERED DUNCE! I ALWAYS KNEW THAT YOU WERE LIKE YOUR DEGENERATE OF A MOTHER!" The young man didn't respond, his claws digging into the steering wheel's leather as he began to vividly recall his father abusing his mother before moving on to him. He bore his fangs and teeth as all of his hate and rage he accumulated over the years finally burst forth. His eyes snapping open, he rapidly unsheathed his machete, and before Michael could react, he plunged the blade right of the suprasternal notch and below the clavicle  severing his father's subclavian artery. Blood began to pour out from the wound as the piebald twisted the machete, making his shocked dad cough up more blood. "YOU NEVER WERE MY FATHER, YOU FUCKING CRETIN!" Toby loudly hissed as he ripped his blade from Michael's chest, blood coating the piebald and the Anacondrai machete.

The old man was speechless as he clutched his wound, attempting to open the passenger door only to fall out of the truck. He propped himself against the noodle truck only to witness the small force finally converge on their position, discovering that it's a group of 24 Serpentine led by a single human. Said human looked at the dying Michael - who was weakly reaching out to them - and motioned the others to come to his aid, only to stop at seeing Toby. The piebald - his bloodied weapon in hand - looked at his father in disgust before dryly ordering, "Don't save him. He dragged me into this mess, not to mention that he's been tormenting me for the vast majority of my life. Let the son of a bitch die." Michael watched in horror as the human looked at the two before nodding in agreement with his son's command, tears streaming down his face as he began to feel weaker and weaker. His breathing became shallow as he fell to the ground, blood trickling from his wound and mouth as he croaked, his eyes cloudy and body now permanently limp. The living fake Anacondrai breathed a sigh of relief as the human carefully maneuvered around the lifeless corpse. 

The back door to the truck opened as a fake, abundistic Anacondrai poked their head out the back, only to see that they were surrounded. Motioning to their companions, the Cultists poured out of the vehicle only to have swords and spears at their throats. "Lower your arms," the sole human commanded his forces, who - after some hesitation - complied with the order and stood down. Seeing that both sides are still on edge, Toby cleaned and holstered his machete before asking, "Who the hell are you?" The human male, seeing his opponent put away their weapon, decides to sheathe his cane-sword before replying, "Well, my name is Bennett Grant, and who would you be? "Toby. Toby Thompson," the piebald answered as he pointed to the dead Anacondrai, "And that corpse is - was my 'father' Michael Thompson. He was -" "An asshole?" Grant interrupted, the fake Anacondrai nodding in agreement, though he was surprised at Bennett's ability to effortlessly decipher his true feelings. "Yeah, I have an uncanny power to discern a person's emotions. It's … quite strange I have to say," the human admitted before going back on topic, "Now for the matter at hand: What are y'all doing here and why?" 

The other Cultists looked at each other before staring at Toby, who sighed in defeat as he took a quick glance at his dead father before turning toward the silver-haired man. "It's really simple to be honest with you: Chen and Clouse have this cult revolving around the Anacondrai, with their main goal being that they become fake Anacondrai and conquer Ninjago. We -" he motioned to his companions - "are tasked with taking Ninjago Harbor ahead of time for the invasion force. Unfortunately for them, they sent those who either joined against their will or are now doubting their original willingness to become a Cultist. That's why my dad was chosen as the leader of our little misfit group: To keep us all in line with Chen's plan. Now that Michael's gone, we no longer have to adhere to that bastard's ridiculous scheme." The piebald watched as Grant tightened his grip on his cane as he realized that the Cult's place was already in motion, and that they would have to warn the mobilizing forces of the Second Elemental Alliance about the maniac's insane plot. "All of you, come with us," Bennett urgently ordered the fake Anacondrai, "We need to inform the others about the coming danger to prevent a megalomaniac from ruling Ninjago." The Cultists simply nodded in agreement as they and Grant's men loaded themselves into the back of the noodle truck, with Bennett and Toby in the cabin as they embarked for the Alliance's main base.

[Upon our arrival to the Elemental Alliance's HQ, the coalition of humans and Serpentine were surprised to see Cultists - Anti-Cultists we now called ourselves - joining their forces. Me and the rest of the Anti-Cultists were about to get attacked by confused and scared humans when Grant intervened to ease tensions between us and the Elemental Alliance. The Serpentine generals were especially surprised to see me as a fake Anacondrai, that was until I admitted how their initial concerns about Michael were true, as well as detailing how he forced me into Chen's Anacondrai Cult and how I finally killed the bastard after refusing to capture Ninjago Harbor. The first day of the Second Serpentine War saw the Alliance get pushed back, though the combined forces of Bennett and the Anti-Cultists managed to score a dozen kills. That night Petr Horník joined our side, where he revealed that he defected because Chen and his Cult were tarnishing the image and reputation of the Anacondrai, in addition to the fact that the Cultists weren't even real Anacondrai to begin with. He spoke about how Chen had set up camp in Ninjago City's subway tunnels, and how he overheard some of his men spreading rumors. These rumors included tainted food that caused those that ate it to become paralyzed; losing contact with ships, and how weird looking ships and planes sunk them; and how some Cultist platoons were completely wiped out by unknown forces, with some the survivors from these platoons saying that these strange enemies were carrying advanced lethal equipment.]

[On the second day, the Cultists continued their advance, forcing the Alliance to retreat to the Corridor of Elders, where the two armies fought to a standstill. During the fighting, a small Pythor rode in on a rat towards our lines, holding Clouse's spellbook as I got distracted by a human female winning a duel against Clouse himself. Not even a moment later, Garmadon sacrificed himself to release the Anacondrai generals from the Cursed Realm, who then proceeded to banish Chen, Clouse and the rest of the Anacondrai Cult to the Cursed Realm in turn. After returning Pythor to his normal size, Arcturus commended and his generals commended us - the Anti-Cultists - for our courage and bravery by turning against Chen and his sect, rewarding us by turning us back human, which removed our Cult tattoo in the process; the same can't be said for the Cult insignia that was branded onto my back. With their work done, the Anacondrai generals left for the Realm of the Departed.]

[When the Elemental Alliance was dissolved, the humans and Serpentine went back home, with the exception of the Anti-Cultists and Bennett's party. You see, though the governments of the humans and Serpentine made "amends'' and ended hostilities against each other, not everyone was willing to follow them. There were anti-Serpentists - Serpentine-hating humans - and Serpentine supremacists - Serpentine who believe that they are superior to humans - that continued to exist after the royal families of both species improved ties with another. The problem we saw was that though Serpentine Supremacist groups shrunk into non-existence, the anti-Serpentist groups remained, though they were fewer and smaller. We envisioned a society where humans and Serpentine could peacefully coexist, and so the idea of New Hope was born. After gathering our things and family members who were willing to join us, we set out to find somewhere to settle, which was easy since the area Bennett settled - the Forest of Tranquility - was the perfect place for a new state. After a few months the little town was completed, but since more and more humans and Serpentine tickled in, we had to expand the town into the metropolis that it is now.]

-------------------------------------

" … And I think we both know what happened next," Toby finished, the two of them having long since finished their meals. "Yeah," Gideon responded as he slithered up to the human and hugged him, whispering, "You've been through a lot. No wonder why you were hesitant to tell me about your past. Thanks for sharing … dad." The human blushed as he returned the hug, clearly relieved at finally telling his life story to someone as he murmured, "Thank you … son." The two broke their embrace as the soft sound of rain was briefly overshadowed by the crack of thunder, and Toby looking at the clock to see that it was 11:30 p.m. "Damn. Didn't think I was talking for that long," he admitted, "I think the two of us should get some sleep." Gideon simply agreed as the two made their way to their rooms, Toby turning off the lights to the kitchen and living room as they wished each other a good night.

As Toby got ready for bed, he stared at the Anacondrai machete mounted on its sword stand, smirking as he remembered that he was finally free from his father's influence. Turning off the lights, he got into bed and was about to go to sleep when he thought he spotted something outside his window. He quickly got up and went to investigate, only to see nothing of note; reasoning that his mind might have just played a trick on him, he went back into bed and drifted off into a deep sleep. With Toby asleep, a ghost of an Anacondrai with white hands and head hovered off the roof and back onto the ground, peering through the window to see the human sleeping. The ghost proceeded to weep, cursing themself as another bolt of lightning lit up the night sky, followed by the boom of thunder rumbling across the forest.

[cakesunflower]

Who’s Gonna Love You Like Me? [Brother’s Best Friend!Calum AU] Part 4

A/N: hello friends! i hope wherever you’re reading this, you’re quarantined and staying healthy and safe! this is a tough time for all of us and if you or a loved one is feeling sick, i wish you a speedy and easy recovery! i hope this chapter or any of my writing provides you with even a little bit of distraction.

stay safe, stay healthy, stay inside y’all! and happy reading!!

Previous Parts: Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

When Josie pulled up to the driveway of the house during her hour long lunch break, she pursed her lips at the sight of the black Range Rover parked behind Luke’s car. Josie sighed, shutting the door of her car and jingling her keys in her hand as she walked through the threshold of the house, confused gaze immediately landing on a suitcase that was settled on the ground next to the couch.

“Luke?” Josie called, her voice traveling through the house as she wandered into the kitchen. She was in dire need of some leftover spaghetti—so much so that she made the trip back home just to eat some for her lunch break. “Oh, brother of mine—where you at?”

“Why are you yelling?” She heard Luke huff as she crouched down slightly to pull out the dish of spaghetti, straightening and shutting the door with her foot. Her brother stood at the entrance of the kitchen, blonde hair pulled back in a bun, looking unfairly comfortable in his lounge wear. Someone decided to skip work. “And what’re you doing home?”

Josie lifted the bowl to show him before settling it on the counter. As she moved around to grab a bowl and fork, she answered, “Needed sustenance. What’re you doing home?” 

Luke crossed his arms over his chest, raising an eyebrow as he asked, “Didn’t you check my text?”

Scoffing dramatically as she shut the microwave to heat up her bowl, Josie faced her brother and returned, “I don’t check my texts at work or while I’m driving, Luke. I’m a responsible adult.” Sure, she remembered her phone buzzing with a text or two from him, but that didn’t necessarily mean she stopped what she was doing to check them.

He rolled his eyes, used to the playful sarcasm she’d become an expert on perfecting over the years. Fixing her with a pointed look, he said, “Calum’s moving in.”

What?

The air ceased from circulating in her lungs, prompting Josie to remain still where she stood as the smile she wore froze on her face. The beat of silence that passed between the two felt like an eternity in Josie’s ringing head, her grip on the counter behind her tightening as she forced herself to process Luke’s words quicker. Less time to make him feel suspicious as to why she was internally losing her goddamn mind. Her heart had picked up its pace, fast in the way it lodged itself in her throat as she blinked quickly.

“I—uh, why?” She hoped the smile on her face wasn’t as nervous as her voice sounded in her ears. “And where’s he gonna sleep? You don’t have another extra room.” The only spare bedroom was now hers.

Luke scratched his beard as he pushed himself off the wall, walking over to the bowl of fruit on the center counter he’d been eyeing earlier. He picked up a red apple as he informed Josie, “Something about a burst pipe? I don’t know, I told him he could stay with us. The couch’s a pull-out. It’s only temporary—he should be fine.”

Josie desperately wanted to ask why Ashton or Michael couldn’t house their friend, biting her tongue when she remembered Ashton only lived in a one bedroom apartment and Michael and Crystal were currently going through a very stressful move from their own apartment to a new house. Despite the lack of bed, Calum moving into Luke’s place was the most logical decision. Even if it had Josie’s heart racing out of pure guilt and nerves. How the hell was she supposed to keep her mind off of him when he would be sleeping down the fucking stairs? Josie had known moving to L.A. would significantly increase her chances of running into Calum—but in the living room? Fuck.

“Wait, shit—I should’ve asked you first, right? I mean, this is your place now too and, like, if you don’t want—”

Luke’s rambling broke Josie out of her guilt ridden thoughts—as did the sudden beeping of the microwave—and she blinked her wide eyes before interrupting her brother. “No, no, it’s fine,” Josie assured him with a gentle laugh, almost forced, as she quickly turned to take the bowl out of the microwave. Her nerves didn’t even allow her to acknowledge the hotness of the bowl burning her fingers before she set it down. She felt a pang ricochet through her chest at her brother’s sudden worry of not clearing with her if his friend could move in to his own home. As an attempt of covering up her guilt, nerves, whatever the fuck it may be, Josie added with a gentle laugh, “I thought I wouldn’t be caught in another sleepover with you and your boys after you moved out.”

Apparently that was enough to have Luke break out into a short bout of laughter, grinning around the red apple as he bit into it with a sharp crunch. Her brother winked at her, moving to leave the kitchen as he said, “You can’t escape us that easily, Jos.”

She could wish, though.

Rather than retreating to the living room or to the dining table, Josie hopped up on the couch, placing a small tray in her lap so the bottom of the hot bowl didn’t burn her lap as she twirled the pasta around her fork. Josie ate her lunch absently, able to vaguely hear the music playing upstairs and the two pairs of footsteps, not at all making a move to go up and see her brother and new temporary roommate.

Luke was only being a good friend by having Calum move in with them, but of course he wasn’t aware of the complication that tensed Josie’s muscles at the thought of Calum living with them. That being said, Calum knew. He knew first hand how awkward it could potentially get with the two of them being under the same roof—the last time they were, they’d crossed the line that had disappeared since. They were already around each other more than it was helpful; this temporary living arrangement wouldn’t be doing them any favors.

Letting out a sharp breath through her nose as she chewed, Josie’s shoulders slumped, disenchanted gaze casted down to her bowl. Was she overreacting? She couldn’t clearly tell and couldn’t bring it in herself to care. Looking her brother in the eye had become hard enough—now the reason for that was living with them. The universe seemed to be against her.

So lost in her thoughts, Josie hadn’t even been aware of the footsteps that were approaching until there was another person in the room, looking up to see the man who had consumed her thoughts lingering by the entrance. She looked up, sensing him before she even saw him, slowly swallowing the mouthful of pasta as her eyes met his dark ones. Calum didn’t say anything, didn’t try to. She recognized, wryly, the reluctance he wore on his face, lips pursed as they silently stared at one another.

Josie lifted her chin, raising an eyebrow as she repeated the same words he’d said to her on one of her first days in L.A., right here in this kitchen. “You could’ve given me a heads up.”

“Thought I’d return the favor of giving you a surprise,” Calum returned smoothly, moving further into the kitchen. He went to the fridge, which happened to be on Josie’s immediate left, given that she was sitting on the counter right by it. Josie’s expression dropped into a deadpan, and Calum scoffed as he opened the fridge and pulled out a bottle of beer. As he uncapped it, he looked at her, letting out a sigh as a meaningful expression flashed across his face. “It’s only temporary. It’s not a big deal, Josie.”

She narrowed her eyes, tilting her head. “Do you seriously believe that?” she challenged, not entirely satisfied by his statement. He didn’t even sound like he believed it, so how was he going to try and convince her otherwise?

Calum sighed sharply once more, facing the ceiling briefly—Josie fought the urge to eye at the expanse of his neck, at the way her lips had once felt on it—before looking down at her with a tired, almost bored expression. Calum spoke quickly, an irritated rasp in his voice as he retorted, “No, Jos, I don’t; but I can’t stay at Ash or Mike’s and I couldn’t give Luke a legit reason to deny his offer other than the fact that I fucked his sister.”

Her eyes grew wide, absently glad she didn’t have a mouthful of spaghetti she would’ve definitely choked on upon hearing Calum’s words. With her free hand, she smacked his arm, gaze darting towards both entrances of the kitchen, looking into the living room and towards the hall leading to the stairs in case Luke was anywhere near. Her heart had jumped in her throat, feeling a fire spark in the pit of her belly as Calum’s words resonated in her head.

“Are you serious?” she hissed, incredulous gaze on him as Calum rolled his dark eyes, taking a sip of the beer. No longer did he look as reluctant as he had when he first came into the kitchen, now adopting a demeanor too casual than the situation called for. He looked like he could care less about the situation, meanwhile Josie felt her heart pick up its pace. Whether it was at Calum so casually flinging around his words or at the reminder of a night she would never forget, Josie wasn’t sure. Most likely both. She shook her head at him. “Shut up—Luke might hear you.”

“He went to take a shower,” Calum informed, unfazed by the tension in Josie’s voice. She hated how calmly he stood there, and it only made her believe that she truly was overreacting over the whole situation. But she knew Calum—or, well, liked to think that she did—and she remembered the way he had looked so tense on the night of her welcoming party. If her being in the same city as him had his teeth grinding, Josie believed it was fair for her stomach to be in constant knots because of him staying in her house.

“Look, just—” Calum sighed once again, running a hand through his growing hair, resting it at the back of his neck as he looked at Josie. He dropped his hand to the side, offering a shrug. “Just relax, okay? It’ll be fine. You work during the day and I work at night so I doubt we’ll be seeing much of each other, okay? It’s only temporary.”

It’s only temporary. It was only that one time. The latter were words that echoed in the back of Josie’s head every time Calum came into view. She had a feeling the former would come back to bite her in the ass someday, somehow. 

Her eyes met his once more, her lips pursed, and Calum did his best by offering a small smile before turning to leave the kitchen once more. Josie watched him, took in the delicious expanse of his back under the soft material of his red shirt, the tattoos on his arms feeling as though they were only there to make her want to trace them with her fingers. The black ink looked so pretty against his skin, art on art, and Josie hadn’t realized she’d been chewing on her lips until she parted them to speak up without much thought.

“You’re telling me you’re not the least bit worried?”

About this? About us? About Luke finding out and about everything falling apart all over again even though it was barely put back together?

Calum stopped, shoulders lifting briefly before he looked at her over his shoulder. He shook his head with a proper shrug of his shoulders, raising his eyebrows as he asked, “What’s there to be worried about? So long as we keep our mouths shut, we’re fine.”

Josie wanted to laugh at his words, giving an unconvinced tilt of her head and an almost sad raise of her own eyebrows. In that moment, Calum had become too good at masking his emotions, his thoughts, and she found the frustration gnawing at her when she couldn’t get a good read on what he truly thought. “You seriously don’t believe that, do you?” she still tried by asking.

Calum’s gaze averted, looking towards the wall to his right. With the view she had of his profile, Josie picked up on the way he clenched his jaw, the muscle jumping, sexy and tense and complicated. There was a heavy silence for a minute, the tension of their situation weighing them both down as Calum finally sighed. He shook his head, turning away from her as he continued his way out of the kitchen, not before answering, “I’m trying to.”

The three word answer Calum had given Josie sat with her for the rest of the day when she went back to work to finish her shift. She moved mechanically, an interested facade put up to please the clients she met with despite her head begging her to focus on something else—to focus on Calum and what he had said.

In the midst of washing and drying and cutting hair, Josie couldn’t shake it off. I’m trying to. He was trying to what? Believe that they would be fine? That everything would be okay? Did he think that things between the two of them would never be the same after what happened? The thought of it, the thought of her friendship with Calum getting knocked down several pegs, left an ache in Josie’s chest she couldn’t quite voice. Of course things would be different after the night they spent together in her dorm. You can’t just look at someone, much less a person who was your good, close friend, the same way after they gave your five mind blowing orgasms in one night.

Shit. Fuck, that was besides the point. Even if she couldn’t stop imagining the way he kissed her every time she caught him biting his lower lip, or feel her knees quiver as she remembered the way he carried her to her bed in the dorm. . .

God. Of course things wouldn’t be the same between them after that night. She wondered if Calum had to fight similar thoughts from infiltrating his mind, if he had to remind himself that he couldn’t be thinking about her the way she thought about him. At this point, though, what was the use? They’d already overstepped physically. Thoughts couldn’t hurt anyone.

Though they were torturous. And as Josie continued with her shift, they only settled heavily on her heart. Both of them knew sleeping together would fuck things up, but they went through with it anyway—because they were selfish. Because they’d only been thinking about themselves and their needs, not about their friends or her brother. They had just been chalked up as consequences they would have to deal with later, and later was now and Josie had no idea what to do. Maybe Calum had the right idea, to just try and pretend it was fine. Fake it til you make it, that sort of thing. They’d come this far, right?

Yet each step forward seemed to be harder than the last.

When she’d returned home from work, Josie was quick to rid herself of her makeup and change into her pajamas before collapsing on the bed, the softness of the mattress and pillows and cool blankets inviting. She didn’t quite remember when she fell asleep, but she did remember being pulled out of it in the middle of the night, hours later with a dry throat and desperate need for water.

Sleepily, she got up from her bed, bare feet padding towards the door as she pushed her blonde hair out of her face. As Josie made her way down the hallway towards the stairs, her eyebrows furrowed as a sound greeted her, distant but still in the house. Slowly, she made her way downstairs, and with each step she descended, the more distinct the sound became, recognizing it as uncomfortable grunts and huffs.

She walked into the kitchen, flipping on the stove light which was the dullest, and as she filled up a glass of water, her gaze wandered to the kitchen where the sounds kept coming from. Glass in hand, Josie stepped over to the entrance of the kitchen that opened into the living room, and with the dull light on the stove, she could make out Calum’s figure tossing and turning on the pullout mattress of the couch.

The grunts were coming from him, annoyed and uncomfortable, and Josie realized that as nice as the couch was to sit on, the mattress was probably not the same. She rolled her lips into her mouth, eyebrows drawing together at his clear discomfort. Aware of his schedule, Josie knew he probably got home from work about an hour or so ago, probably battling for a comfortable position since then, and before she had the chance to truly think about it, she was making her way into the living room and where he lay.

“Calum,” she spoke, her voice quiet as to not startle him, standing by the makeshift bed. “Hey.”

He stopped before sitting up, dark eyes meeting hers as he blinked in mild confusion at the sight of her. The blanket pooled at his lap, hands brace against the mattress and providing Josie with the sight of his biceps, in full view thanks to his muscle tee. She pushed back the image of when her nails had dug right into the muscle, of the feeling of his arms wrapped around her in something more intimate than a hug.

“Josie,” he frowned, tired and a bit puzzled. “You good?”

She fought the smile that threatened to upturn her lips. “I should be asking you that.” She eyed the mattress, raising an eyebrow. “Is it that uncomfortable?”

“Uh,” Calum paused with a slight chuckle, looking at what he was laying on as if he was seeing it for the first time. “Prison beds might be more comfortable.”

Josie pursed her lips. For all his money, Luke should invest in a better pullout. She gave herself a moment to consider her thoughts, knowing the danger of even thinking them, but she couldn’t just let Calum suffer through a night of terrible sleep. Things between them were weird, both of them trying to navigate through uncharted waters, but she couldn’t use that as an excuse to allow him to sleep on an uncomfortable bed.

“Come on—” she ticked her head towards the stairs before she psyched herself out of her decision. “My bed’s a lot comfier.”

Calum’s gaze met hers, saw something unknown settle in his features as he asked her, “You sure that’s a good idea?”

There was a burning in her cheeks, grip on her glass tightening as she forced her expression to remain neutral, not effected. “We’re just sleeping,” she told him, hating that she felt her voice waver as if she was trying to convince herself of the truth. That’s all they would be doing. Sleeping.

He hesitated for a moment, eyeing her from where he sat, and Josie merely looked back at him with an expectant raise of her eyebrows. Her head kept telling her it was a bad idea, but she told it to shut up. The worst thing she could’ve done had already taken place—she couldn’t let him sleep so uncomfortably after being behind a bar all night. Besides, it’d only be for tonight; tomorrow, she’d tell Calum to hint at Luke in getting a new couch, and if Luke found out his best friend had a shit night on his own couch, no doubt the blonde would buy another one.

When Calum finally let out a breath and got up, Josie took a step back, glancing down at herself as she rolled her lower lip into her mouth at the sight of her clothes. Her pajamas consisted of sleep shorts and an old softball shirt cut to be a crop top, and under the sudden weight of Calum’s gaze, Josie felt a bit too exposed in front of him.

As he stood before her, tall figure easily looming over hers and dark eyes traveling from her blue painted toes all the way to her eyes, Josie’s skin flushed as she told herself she was being ridiculous. He’d fucking seen her naked; she couldn’t get more exposed to that.

Breaking their gaze because the fluttering of her heart was becoming too much, Josie silently turned to head back up the stairs, Calum’s presence behind her one she couldn’t hope to ignore as they silently moved through the dark house. Their footsteps were light as they approached Josie’s room, though it wasn’t needed—Luke could sleep through an earth quake.

Her bedroom was dark, which Josie was grateful for as she went to the right side of the bed, setting her glass down as she sat on the edge and was all too aware of Calum moving around to the other side. Josie’s back was still to him as she felt the mattress shift underneath her because of his weight, and she played with the blanket as she eyed the wall ahead of her. The room was suffocatingly silent, one she really wanted to get rid of. She didn’t want to be weird in front of Calum—too late for that, the voice in her head mocked—but she couldn’t help it. And not for the first time, while Josie didn’t regret what they’d done, she did hate the tense aftermath of it all.

As if she was trying to somehow reassure herself, Josie didn’t look back at Calum as she asked, “This isn’t gonna be weird, is it?”

He was silent for only a second. “No. It’s fine if, y’know, you don’t think about what happened the last time we were in bed together.”

The casualness in which he spoke in had Josie huffing with a drop of her shoulders, bringing her legs up so she could lay on the bed, though she paused as she shot Calum a look. Even in the dark of her room, she saw the smirk curling at his lips as he copied her position. She had nothing substantial to say other than, “Literally, shut up,” through flushed cheeks as she dug her legs under the blanket. Calum merely snickered, feeling a lot more at ease than she was, and she narrowed her eyes when she caught him just staring at her. The amused playfulness danced in his eyes, shamelessly raking his gaze on her as he sat with his back agains the headboard, an easiness in his features Josie felt overwhelmed by. With a heat in her cheeks, she subtly wrestled with the blanket and told him, “Stop looking at me like that.”

Her words prompted a laugh from Calum, raising his eyebrows as he tilted his head almost challengingly. “Really?” he hummed, picking up his phone. His face lit up with the screen, shadowing the sharp features of his face as she watched him set up an alarm for half an hour before Luke’s went off. Eyes meeting hers once more with a smirk, he finished, “You didn’t seem to care when I was literally in you, like, three month ago.”

Josie’s jaw slackened, an incredulous squeak getting caught in her throat as she stared at him in a mixture of disbelief, feeling the entirety of her skin flush at the blatant reminder of a night she couldn’t ever forget. “Stop,” she stated through gritted teeth, no real annoyance or anger in her tone as she huffed and laid down, turning her back to him as she added pointedly, “Goodnight, Calum.”

Assuming sleep would come easy when there was an achingly familiar warm body next to hers would be foolish on Josie’s part, the blanket brought up to her chin as she stared at the digital clock on her bedside table. The green numbers read 2:56 A.M. and Josie suppressed a sigh. Her shift wasn’t until ten, so not getting enough sleep wasn’t a concern. It was just the act of falling asleep itself, with Calum in the same bed as hers, that kept her brain kicking and muscles tense.

It was silent only for a few moments until Calum’s voice spoke up. “So. . . How’ve you been?”

Josie’s eyebrows raised where she lay, unsure of what he was playing at or why he was trying to start a conversation right now. He was fucking with her, wasn’t he? “Calum, it’s three in the morning and the only reason why I suggested sleeping in my room is because I’m a good person and you were being too loud.”

She could hear the damned smirk in his voice as he didn’t miss a beat and instantly retorted, “You think that’s what your neighbors were saying when you were screaming my name that night?”

Josie’s eyes squeezed shut as she brought her hands up to cover her face, preventing herself from screaming into her palms as she felt Calum’s body shake subtly with the deep chuckles that were escaping him. She hated that despite the memories his words brought up, she felt the tension in her muscles surprisingly ease, no longer feeling suffocated in her own room. “Calum, I swear to God I will kick you off my bed.”

“I’m just playin’, Josie.”

Despite the sound of his laugh making her heart thrum, Josie felt her jaw tighten as she remembered their conversation earlier in the afternoon. So she turned to face him, propping herself up on her elbow as she peered down at his laying figure. Calum’s dark eyes instantly met her blue, and she saw the way his expression faltered when he noted the mild hardness in hers. “You’re completely going against what you said earlier today, remember?” she demanded with a challenging quirk of her eyebrow. “Trying to pretend that we’re fine isn’t gonna happen if you keep bringing up what happened.”

“I was wrong.” Calum propped himself up on his elbow as well and Josie didn’t pull back despite the sudden proximity. She could smell his familiar cologne that still stuck to his skin, tickling her nose. With this new closeness, she saw the way his eyes flickered down to her lips, sending her heart to her throat as his low voice spoke, “You and I—we’re fine. No pretending necessary.”

Josie was having a hard time ignoring her racing heart, her own gaze on his kissable mouth, feeling the familiar pull tugging her towards him and doing her best to fight it. “Unless we’re with everyone else, right?”

His lips curled upwards in a small smirk. “We’ve made it this long,” Calum responded with an agreeing tone. Josie’s heart stilled when Calum’s hand reached up, fingers pushing back a lock of her blonde hair behind her ear, her teeth pressing together when his fingers just barely grazed her cheek, igniting a fire in their wake. He still had that effect on her. “We got this, pretty girl.”

Her lungs were robbed of air as he spoke, and Josie subtly raised her eyebrows as she shot him a look. Her voice was quiet in the dark of her room, teeth lightly grazing her lower lip as she told him softly, “We won’t if you keep calling me that.”

Calum had been watching her bite her lower lip and Josie wondered if it was just as difficult for him to not lean in and close the gap between them as it was for her. Calum half-smiled, dropping his hand from her as he finally said, “G’night, Jos.”

He settled back down, back towards her, and Josie tilted her head back to look up at the ceiling. She could feel the heat of his body next to hers despite the space between the two of them, and Josie rolled her lips into her mouth as she settled down as well, her back towards his. Yet another bad idea for the books.

At this point, she might as well become the poster child for stupid relationship decisions. Sooner or later, it would come to bite her in the ass.

--

tags: @irwinkitten @sweetcherrymike @meetashthere @loveroflrh @softforcal @astroashtonio @novacanecalum @captain-what-is-going-on @angelbbycal @singt0mecalum @hopelessxcynic @lfwallscouldtalk @bodhi-black @findingliam-o @softlrh @highfivecalum @calumsmermaid @erikamarie41 @quintodosuniversos @longlastingdaydream @babylon-corgis @lukehemmingsunflower @imfuckin10plybud @pastelpapermoons @conquerwhatliesahead92 @rotten-kandy @metangi @neigcthood @ohhmuke @old-zeppelin-shirt @5sos-and-hessa @trustmeimawhalebiologist​ @vxlentinecal​ @pettybassists​ @vaporshawn​ @lu-my-golden-boi​ @visualm3nte​ @isabella-mae13​ @dontjinx-it​ @lifeakaharry​ @neonweeknds​ @antisocialbandmate​ @ixcantxdecidexwhosxmyxfave​ @calpalbby​ @grreatgooglymoogly​ @sunnysidesblog​ @miahelizaaabeth​ @madelynerin​ @dramallamawithsparkles​ @kaytiebug14​ @hoodskillerqueen​ @theagenderwhocriedwolf @bitchinbabylon @empathycth​ @xhaileyreneex​ @inlovehoodx​ @calistheloml @aestheticrelated​ @bloodlinecal​ @sublimehood​ @madbomb​ @raabiac​ @britnicole11​ @outofmylimitcal​ @wildflower-cth​ @wildflowergrae​ @bloodmoonashton​ @vxidhood​ @gosh-im-short​ @thesubtweeter​ 

[wanna-b-poet31]

Gabriel: He Hath Turn'd A Heaven Unto Hell

I felt like clarifying my earlier Meta on Gabriel’s Gaslighting in Good Omens. 

So like, we know that Gabriel is a dick but what makes him worse (and abusive), is how he uses his position of privilege and power over Aziraphale. 

Even though I’ve read some amazing metas that assert Aziraphale would be canonically higher ranked than the archangels, the bureaucracy favors Gabriel. While Aziraphale may have been given troops to command and a garden to protect, Michael refers to Gabriel’s choices when confronting the evidence against Aziraphale for his demonic “boyfriend”, Sandalphon allows Gabriel to direct the “surprise” meeting in the bookshop, and Gabriel appears at the airfield, in a position equal to Beelzebub, Prince of Hell.  So even if it isn’t a God-ordained position of power, he clearly is treated as the authority figure over Heaven. 

His abuse is rooted in the desire to gain and maintain power and control over Aziraphale. And like real talk, Show!Gabriel is sickeningly effective at emotionally abusing Aziraphale, and his most insidious tool is gaslighting.

Broadly, what I mean is that Gabriel is (trying to) reshape Aziraphale’s perception of reality using techniques like: 

pretending not to understand why Aziraphale is so worried about being unable to stop the war (Withholding); 

purposefully making Aziraphale’s feelings/interests feel insignificant (Trivializing); 

Changing topics when Aziraphale starts to question his or Heaven’s motives for the war(Diverting); 

Forgetting or denying events that have previously happened (Denial)

Purposefully questioning the victim’s memory/even despite knowing their account of events to be true (Countering)

Gaslighting IS abuse. Full Stop.

Although it can masquerade as genuine confusion or concern, the National Domestic Violence Hotline reminds us how over time, these abusive patterns of behaviors lead to a victim who “can become confused, anxious, isolated and depressed while losing all sense of what is actually happening. Then, the victim may start relying on the abusive partner more and more to define reality, which creates a very difficult situation to escape”

Affect on Aziraphale

Because? Honestly? Gabriel’s behavior is not nice, or innocent.  

Who here can honestly say that Aziraphale doesn’t constantly second-guess himself? And that he doesn’t have trouble making decisions?

Or ask himself if he’s too sensitive? too soft?

Maybe that he’s confused, or crazy? That he has to apologize for Heaven/Gabriel’s behavior to friends? That he feels like he has to withhold information to avoid making excuses or explaining Heaven/Gabriel’s behavior?

Does anyone think he’s happy despite apparently “good” things happening for angels? That he should feel happier for his circumstances?  Or that he knows something is terribly wrong, but unable to express what it is? To Gabriel? To God? To Crowley? Even To himself? 

We already know he uses lying as a coping mechanism to avoid put-downs!  And When he’s away from Heaven he’s a radically different person. That he’s more confident, more fun-loving, more relaxed when away from his abusers. 

He’s absolutely joyless around Gabriel, 

and been made to feel he can’t do anything right. 

These are all the symptoms of being gaslit (gaslighted?), and it takes a heavy psychological toll on Aziraphale’s mental health.

He is being controlled. 

Through gaslighting, Gabriel can control Aziraphale’s perception of reality and consequently control his actions. 

Gabriel’s Guilting Pleasure

Gabriel cares about humanity about as much as one cares about their obligatory dental appointment. They do it, sure, but through requirement, and clinical distance. He doesn’t choose to love humanity, he chooses to manage Humanity. He chooses to treat them like cattle: to be kept in a pen [earth], kept for slaughter. He yearns for control, and that control extends to the angels who depend on him for leadership. 

Contrast that with how Aziraphale >and Crowely< who unabashedly choose to love humanity. 

Aziraphale is, at heart, a lover of food. He finds genuine joy and pleasure from eating, and in many ways, it’s an intimate part of who Aziraphale IS. It’s not that Aziraphale is a glutton, but it sparks joy in him.

Crowley clearly takes note of this, and on more than one occasion has gone out of his way to eat with him.  Book!Crowley explicitly shares food with Aziraphale, purposefully ordering desserts that his angel can steal bites.  It’s tender, it’s sweet, and it clearly shows the mutual respect the two share.

When unconstrained by the bounds of Heaven, we can see in the above GIF, just how relaxed Aziraphale can be. He has a soft calm smile, unafraid features. and a body language that to me communicates the feeling of safety.  This is an entity who unabashedly happy, but not just about Sushi.  He has a semblance of freedom here.

But, the scene abruptly changes when a Wild Gabriel appears! 

Aziraphale goes from relaxed, care-free, to tense in 0.01 seconds. Once he finishes *appreciating the sushi* there’s a magical jingling sound, Aziraphale almost instinctually turns left because Crowley is always on his left, and Gabriel’s face greets him in the mirror. 

We have a few precious seconds where we can see Aziraphale’s face journey: relax joy turns to expectant smile:

Look at the crinkled eyes, the flared nostrils, the look of joy. He’s clearly expecting pleasant company to join him.  

In the below gif, we get a slice of the impact of Gabriel’s control.  Once it’s revealed to be Gabriel, not Crowley, who asks to join him, his entire face falls. Notice how the smile is long gone, and his glance at the food is hesitant like he’s doing something wrong by being there.  

Gabriel then asks: “Why do you consume that? You’re an angel” with palatable judgment. Mean, but harmless right?

No. 

Aziraphale instantly starts making excuses, hiding an integral part of who he is, because he is trying to avoid the inevitable ridicule from someone who is supposed to support him and love him unconditionally.  

Gabriel is asking a question that he can infer an answer from: that either Aziraphale deems eating necessary, or he enjoys doing it. He’s feigning forgetfulness and calling Aziraphale’s choices into question. 

Further, by bringing attention to the “you’re an angel” Gabriel is drawing a line in the sand, defining that to be an Angel, at least a good angel, you can’t eat, lest they “desecrate” their holiness.  You can see Aziraphale’s face IMMEDIATELY fall.

We, the audience, can see this is untrue. There’s no reason to believe food is harmful to supernatural entities, and more importantly, it brings so much unbridled JOY to Aziraphale. So why point it out? Why deliberately trivialize our favorite Angel’s feelings like that?

Control.

Trivializing Aziraphale’s passions allow him to impose his own agenda. 

Gaslighting the War

Okay, so Aziraphale lies ALOT, but we know for a fact that he’s told Gabriel his intentions to try stopping the war. Several times. Over the course of 11 years. It should be no surprise to Gabriel that Aziraphale has a singular goal: saving humanity. 

Although Aziraphale conveniently forgets to mention Crowley’s role in helping prevent the war, Gabriel knows the general gist of Aziraphale’s plan to “prevent” the war. Aziraphale has made his intentions excruciatingly clear. 

However, besides blatantly lying to him about Heaven’s position on saving the world, he trivializes the very real concerns Aziraphale poses. It’s not just that he thinks Aziraphale can’t stop the war, it’s that Gabriel deliberately misleads him. Aziraphale up until the end of Episode 4, firmly believes his “side” will sanction the salvation of humanity. And Gabriel specifically strings him along, letting our angel believe that if he successfully climbs his mountain, he would be accepted by Heaven. (He’s not)

Then, in the above GIF, he dismisses Aziraphale’s transparent, clear plea for help.

CONTEXT: This is how Episode 4 opens. Aziraphale has found the Anti-Christ, met and rejected Crowley’s offer to fly off to Alpha Centauri at the Bandstand, told the love of his life his best friend that he doesn’t even like him and is in full out freak mode. Then, apropos of nothing “runs” into Gabriel and is in dire need of support to stop the end of the world. He NEEDS a lifeline, now that he thinks Crowley is fleeing Earth, never to see him again.

He firmly asserts that humanity is worth saving and that they COULD do it, (they’re Heavenly after all), but Gabriel does not give a single flying fuck about Aziraphale’s feelings.

Instead of answering Aziraphale’s prayers, Gabriel reinforces his own interests (see: the never-ending war) and changes the conversation to focus Aziraphale’s “gut”. The glance in the below GIF is unnervingly condescending.

Look at how “disappointed” Gabriel appears glancing up to meet Aziraphale’s eyes before pointedly looking to Aziraphale’s belly. It is if, with his eyes, Gabriel is insinuating Aziraphale’s appearance is a personal failing and a somehow more important problem than stopping the end of the world.

The pivot from Aziraphale plea “we need to stop the end of the world” to “you’ need to lose the gut” is classic “Diverting” from the situation. It deflects from his own manipulative behavior and leaves Aziraphale to constantly second-guess himself. It puts the power squarely in Gabriel’s hands because the topic is no longer rooted in Aziraphale’s valid concerns or feelings.

Gabriel leaves the scene, with a visibly distraught Aziraphale and, we hear Azirgaphale say he’s soft, in a hopeless, joyless voice that’s full of self-doubt.  It’s a heartbreaking moment because of how powerless Gabriel has made him feel. 

He has no support system.

However, Gabriel’s gaslighting comes to a head once Aziraphale is pushed passed his breaking point.

Aziraphale Want(s) To Break Free

Gabriel doesn’t encounter Aziraphale again until after the armageddon has been thoroughly avoided (read: Aziraphale’s concerns have been validated, he’s taken steps to address his issues, and he’s reformed relationships with people his abuser pushed him to second-guess).

When Gabriel reappears, he has every reason to believe that his gaslighting will work to “control” Aziraphale. Because, while he may now be aware of Aziraphale’s friendship with Crowley, abusers will do anything to get the desired power dynamic (with them controlling all of it, and the victim none), and why abandon his most effective tool?

So he tells Aziraphale to shut up, presuming he can still control Aziraphale. That Aziraphale’s inclusion is not just unneeded, but unwanted. 

Just one thing though, Aziraphale defies his abuser. 

It’s HIS turn to start questioning Gabriel’s grasp of reality. To buck against not just the system, but the authority figure who has constantly been belittling and gaslighting him. 

Why? What changes?

Crowley.

Crowley absolutely does not gaslight Aziraphale. Instead, he seeks to understand and validate his Angel’s concerns. Sure, occasionally they’ll fight, or push each other’s buttons, but Crowley never tries to manipulate of control Aziraphale. He remembers and encourages Aziraphale’s passions, actively seeks to participate in joint interests, and the sole act of saving Aziraphale’s books because he knows just how damn important those books are to his angel.

He’ll even go as far as to prioritize Aziraphale’s needs/comfort above his own.  Is Aziraphale chained in a prison during the Reign of Terror? Sure, let’s just appear to rescue him. Aziraphale is getting double-crossed by Nazi bastards? Let’s just put ourselves in danger and walk on the consecrated ground and be to rescue him and his books.

It would be a bit of an understatement to say that Crowley cares about Aziraphale and wants to promote his wellbeing.

At the Airfield, Gabriel has never interacted with Aziraphale with Crowley around (deleted scenes notwithstanding) and able to support him. But Crowley isn’t just there, he steps up, beside Adam, besides Aziraphale and affirms Aziraphale’s sense of reality. No, he’s not crazy, and his question IS valid. 

The simple act of having a support system there definitely boosts Aziraphale’s confidence and gives him the strength to make an actual choice.

Intervene.

He chooses to walk up to Beelzebub and Gabriel and ask, if they are sure of their reality, because, now Aziraphale sure as hell is. He knows where he stands and who he stands with.  

He is no longer under Gabriel’s control.

Never before has Aziraphale had a single honest choice. Sure, he made the choice to enter the “arrangement” with Crowley, to raise the (wrong) anti-christ, to lie to God. But these choices are rooted in self-preservation and self-defense.  Also, he’s not transparent about these choices to Gabriel.

Once Armageddon is averted, and Aziraphale’s chosen to side with Crowley, to jump out of Heaven if need be for humanity, there is very little holding Aziraphale back. And, Aziraphale is finally being lifted up.

Gabriel tries to intimidate Aziraphale into submission, to tell him the questions he’s asking are insignificant, and that his opinion doesn’t matter. But, Aziraphale no longer is blind to the gaslighting, and pushes on. Crowley, in turn, backs him up and they support each other (and Adam) as they defy their respective abusers.

TLDR: Really, Please, Fuck Off Gabriel

Thanks for coming to my Tedtalk

[chickensarentcheap]

Sanctuary -Chapter 45

WARNINGS: MENTIONS OF DEPRESSION, PTSD, CONTEMPLATED SUICIDE (NOT GRAPHIC, JUST A BRIEF MENTION)

Tagging: @alievans007​, @c-a-v-a-l-r-y​, @thunderintheshadows​, @innerpaperexpertcloud​, @valkyrie-of-the-light​

He gets back to the hotel an hour later; anxious to see her, hold her, kiss her.  The weight of what Michael McMann had so brazenly told him hadn't fully hit until he was on his way back. He'd dropped the van off at Billy Flynn's bar and had only been behind the wheel of the rented SUV for mere minutes before it hit out of nowhere. The brutal truth hitting him square in the gut, the play by play of McMann's words tightening his chest and filling him with crippling terror and anxiety.  The realization of how close he'd actually come to losing the one thing...the one person...that had given him a second chance at life rocking him to his very core. Had they'd been only minutes slower coming out of that bunker, there would have been no way of getting her out of there in time. They would have used her as leverage; to convince him to give himself up in order to save her. And there would have been no hesitation; he would have done it in a heartbeat. But that wouldn't have been enough. Not by a long shot.

They would have made her suffer. Tremendously. They would have inflicted horrific pain and torture on her, even worse than what they'd done to Erin Ferguson,  and he would have been forced to watch and listen as they did it.  And it was that reality that had seen him having to pull over onto the side of the road; forearms resting against the steering wheel, chin tucked into his chest and his eyes closed. Attempting to breathe through the enormous sobs that shook his entire body; unabashed and vicious tears streaming down his face.  Consumed by guilt. The painful realization that it was his choices that had almost led to disaster.  That if they had gotten a hold of her, if they had brutalized and violated her, it would have all been his fault.  His children would have lost their mother and he would have the only one to blame. His life didn't matter. If was to die on the job and she was left behind, she'd be more than capable of raising them on her own. It wouldn't be easy, but she'd be able to do it. They need their mother a lot more than their father. They were used to his frequent absences, after all. But they'd never been away from Esme. Until he'd fucked it all up and called her needing her help.

For several minutes he'd stayed there on the side of the road. Until the tears had finally subsided and the anxiety had begun to dissipate; until his heart no longer threatened to burst out of his chest and his lungs became willing to draw normal breath.  

Tanis is sitting in the hallway, leaning back against the door to the room when he steps off the elevator.  Knees bent, an iPad resting on her thighs.  And he thinks about what McMann had said. About there being more 'rats in the ship' and that someone was getting too close for comfort and they wouldn't be trusted. Although Tanis had been the first suspect that had crossed Yaz' mind, nothing stood out to Tyler that suggested the woman was a threat. She was friendly, mild mannered, even tempered. Had an impeccable service record with the Corps.  Normally his instincts are able to pick on even the slightest hint of suspicion, but when he looked at her...noticing the way she carries herself,  how well read and passive she is...he felt nothing. Not even the slightest inkling of trouble.

“You don't have to sit out here all the time, you know,” Tyler says as he approaches, fishing his key card out of the back pocket of his jeans. “You can actually  go in the room.”

“I know,” she looks up at him with a wide, bright smile. “But she'd fallen asleep and I felt weird just sitting there watching her, so...” she shrugs. “...here I am. How'd it go?”

“It went,” his reply is simple, straight to the point.  

“Have you started beating him into submission yet or...”

“Keep your fucking voice down,” he snarls, and she blinks at the vicious tone in his voice.  

“I'm sorry. I was just...”

“She doesn't know. About what's going on. She thinks the Marines are in control now. That you're holding him somewhere until the IRA makes up their mind.  She doesn't need to know anything else.”

“You don't think she'll figure it out? That she won't wonder where you're disappearing too all the time? I mean, you are planning on following through with it, right? You're not thinking of backing out are you?”

“He needs to pay. And he's going to. But you need to keep your goddamn voice down and not breathe a word of this to her. She doesn't need to know. She's got enough on her plate already. She doesn't need to know about this. I've got things under control. I know what I'm doing.”

Tanis cocks her head to the side as she regards him, “Do you? Because this is a hell of thing you're about to do. I don't know how anyone can be in total control in this kind of situation. Haven't you already lost control if you're willing to do something like this in the first place?”

“Listen, you don't even know me. All you know about me is the a bunch of fucking stories that you've heard.”

“I know that you saved the kid even though you could have given him up for five million dollars. I know you put your ass on the line to get him out of Dhaka even when you knew nothing was going to come of it. That doesn't sound like a guy that gets him off on torturing someone. That sounds like someone with a conscience.  A heart.”

“He was a kid.  A fucking kid.  He was innocent.  I wasn't going to leave him in the street or hand him over. For any amount of money. This shit with McMann? This is different. He's a sick fuck. He's sick and twisted and he took advantage of his own kids and he's letting people do fucked up things to them. And he threatened my family. That's a line you don't cross.”

She frowns. “I notice you didn't mention that he did all of this because he wants to kill you.”

“I don't give a shit about me.  I care about those kids. I care about my own. I care about my wife. Those are the only people who matter to me. So you need to keep your goddamn mouth shut.  She doesn't need to know about this. Especially now. Not with the baby. I just need her to stay relaxed and calm and have everything go nice and smooth for the next seven to eight months or however long we still have go.”

“She's not stupid you know,” Tanis informs him, as she gets to her feet. “She's going to know that something is up. When you're wandering off in the early hours of the morning or during the day. Making up lame, bullshit excuses that she's going to see right through. You really don't think you can hide this from her, do you?”

“I think you need to mind your business and stay out of things that go on between me and my wife. You're just here to protect her. That's it. You're not here to be her friend. You're just here to make sure she's safe. So just keep your mouth shut and do your goddamn job.”

“This is protecting her,”  Tanis argues. “Worrying about her. It's not just physical protection that's important, you know. What's going to happen when the truth does get out? When she realizes what you've been keeping from her? When she realizes you've been lying to her? When she realizes just what you're capable of? That won't be a good ending. Not for her, and certainly not for you.”

“That's something I'll worry about when it happens. I'm doing this for her. For my kids. And she'll understand that.”  

Will she though? Will she really see it that way? Or is that wishful thinking on his part? It was more likely that it would terrify her; the person that he's become. The one he'd warned her about five and a half years ago when he'd told her in that dirty hotel room in Dhaka that maybe it was best they left things the way they were. If they just walked away when the five days were over and never thought of each other again.

“I think it's a reach to expect her to understand why you felt the need to drug, abduct, and torture a man. Do you realize how insane that sounds? How insane you sound? That you're okay with this? Doesn't this make you just as bad as some of the monsters you've had to go up against? How does this make you any different than them?”

“I'm nothing like them. I'll never be like them. I'm doing this for a reason.”

“They had reasons too,” she points out. “Reasons that made sense to them at the time. In the same way this is making sense to you right now. But I am telling you, she's going to know something is going on. She's been with you for almost six years. She knows you better than you know yourself, I bet. So you're a goddamn fool if you think you're going to get away with this.”

“I think you need to leave,” he nods towards the elevator.  “I think you need to shut your mouth and get the hell out of here.”

“There's a very line between fighting the monsters and becoming one ourselves,” she says.  “Maybe that's something you need to think long and hard about.”

“Maybe you need to just mind your own business and fuck off,” he suggests.

“You're going to regret this.” she warns him, as she heads down the hall. “This is going to come back and bite you in the ass.  And you're not going to like how it ends.”

****

She is just emerging from the bathroom when he steps inside, clad in one of the hotel's terrycloth bathrobe, vigorously drying her hair with a towel.  And the bright, ear to ear smile that she flashes him is almost enough to erase all the mental anguish and torment that's been plaguing his already troubled, weary mind.  But he pulls it together. For her. Because she needs him to be the strong, stoic, seemingly unbreakable one.  The one person that -by her own admission- has always made her feel safe and secure. Protected. And he can't let her down. He doesn't want to disappoint her.

He doesn't want to fail her.

“Hey,” she cheerfully greets, and perches herself on her tip toes to wrap her arms around his neck.  Even then it's a stretch, and he still has to either bend or lean into her. “I was wondering what took you so long.”

“There was a couple of loose ends to tie up. Nothing important,” he places his hands on her hips and kisses her; the soft, long, unhurried press of closed mouth upon closed mouth. Loving the way she presses herself against him, how she steps up onto the top of his feet so he doesn't have to lean down as far. And one hand moves to the small of her back and the other to the space between her shoulders, pulling her tight against him.  

He closes  eyes as he feels the scrape of her nails against his scalp; where his hair is clipped tight to his head. It's a comforting act. One she'd stumbled upon -and he found soothing and effective- when he'd been in the hospital.  On the nights when the nightmares, the pain, and the withdrawal from Oxy were especially bad, she'd climb into the bed alongside of him and just hold him with all the strength she possessed inside that tiny body.  And she gives him this moment now; sensing that he needs it. That he needs that chance to be the one that needs to be soothed and comforted instead of the one that always provides those things.  Maybe she even feels it. The way he holds her with a sense of urgency. A sense of desperation.

She pulls away; just enough so she tilt her head back and look up at him. “Are you okay?” she asks, a frown tugging at her lips and creasing her brow. “You seem a little...off.”

He attempts a reassuring smile. “I'm fine.”

She cocks her head to the side and her eyes narrow skeptically.

“It was just a little harder than I thought it would,” he admits, and presses a kiss to the bridge of her nose. “He said some things. That I wasn't ready to here. It fucked with my head a bit.”

“What kind of things? About you?”

He shakes his head.

“About his kids? Did he tell you where they are?”

“I couldn't get it out of him. It wasn't about his kids.”

“About our kids? Please tell me he didn't threaten them. Please tell me that he's not going to send people after them. That they're going to be okay with Ovi. That...”

He presses his lips to her, effectively silencing her. “It wasn't about our kids.”

“About me?”

He nods. And once again he can feel that anxiety setting in; the emotion that chokes him, the tears that threaten,  the blinding rage that serves as proof that he has to follow through with his plan. That no matter the short term or long term consequences, McMann has to pay for what he's done.  For what he could have done.

“Tyler...” she reaches up to lay her hands on the side of his face; liking the way his beard feels against her palms. Thumbs drifting along his bottom lip, then down onto his chin and across jaw. “...what did he say?”

“I can't tell you,” his voice is a near a whisper. How could he ever possibly tell her what he'd heard? It was bad enough that he'd have those words stuck in his head for the rest of his life, never mind the graphic and vile images they'd painted. He couldn't possibly burden her with that.

“That bad?”

“That bad,” he confirms.

“It had to do with that Erin girl, didn't it.”  

She's not stupid. Far from it. She knows the things that trigger him the easiest; senseless violence and abuse of any kind towards women and children.  But it's a fine line between triggering sorrow and fear and intense rage. He always walks in between the two; never fully falling on one side or the other, but dangerously close to succumbing to the latter.  The anger is always there. A byproduct of his PTSD. Lingering just under the surface, always on a slow boil. And it won't take much to set it off.

He nods.

“What did you see? When you found her? What...?”

“I can't tell you.  You don't need to hear that. It's bad enough that it's stuck in my head. You don't need it stuck in yours.”

“It was horrible, wasn't it.”

Another nod.

“And he told he that he'd do the same thing to me. If not worse. And you'd have to watch it.”

“I don't want to talk about this.  You don't need to know these things. I don't want you knowing these things.”

“You know he only said that to fuck with your head right? To get you to lash out at him. Did you? Lash out?”

“In a way, yeah.”    He wants to tell her. The burden of his decision weighs heavily, and he knows if he gets it out sooner, rather than later, the damage won't be as catastrophic. The longer he holds it in, the worse things will be. For himself. For them.

“Don't let him get to you, Tyler. It's what he wants. He wants you to react. And react badly.  Don't do that. Don't let him get you to that point. Because I've seen you at that point and it's not good. For anyone. But especially for you.”

“I can't get it out of my head. The shit that he said.  It's fucking stuck in there. And it just keeps playing over and over again and it won't fucking stop.  I need it to stop. Because when I think about what could have happened, how bad things could have gotten the other day...”

“Stop,” she gently orders,  thumbs brushing along his jaw once more before her hands slide down to his shoulders and onto his chest.  “Don't do this to yourself. You're your own worst enemy. You have to just take it from the source.  You know he's messed up.  You know he's liable to say anything to get you riled up. Don't let him start living up in your head for free. You have enough going on up there.”

“He wasn't just saying these things. He would have done them. In a heartbeat. And he would have made me watch and...”

“Stop,” her tone is firmer now, harsher, but her hands are soft as they travel over his chest and over to his ribs. “You're doing it. You're letting him in. Don't do that to yourself. It doesn't matter what would have happened. It didn't happen. That's what's important. You're here and I'm here and fuck what he says. Why torture yourself like this? Why think about what could have happened to me when I'm right here in front of you?”

“Because.”

“Because? That is what Millie says when we ask her why she does stupid shit. And she's five. You have to give me more than 'because'.”

“Because I don't want to lose you. Especially like that.”

“Tyler...stop...” she admonishes.  “I'm right here. Nothing is going to happen me. I'm safer here...with you...than anywhere else.  You need to stop this. You need to get out of your head.  Nothing good comes from you spending too much time up there.  I love you, but you have to stop this. This obsessing over things. Because it's eating up inside and I hate seeing what it's doing to you. Have you been taking your meds?”

“Don't start with that.”

“Because you get like this when you don't take them for a few days. You get agitated and moody and you're constantly on edge.  You know you're supposed to take them every day. Not just when you feel like it. Just because you have one or two good days doesn't mean you stop taking them.”

He scowls. “I'm not a fucking child, Esme.”

“I never said you were. I worry about you. Maybe I want you to be okay. Mentally. Have you ever thought of that? That maybe I don't want you to be like this? Not for me, but for yourself? I don't want your brain constantly torturing you and putting you through needless bullshit. The meds help and you know they do. So quit fucking around and just take them. Because you know you're in a better place mentally when you do. And when you're in a better place mentally, everything is better. We're better. And that's what we're trying to work on, right? Being better for each other?”

“Yeah, but...”

“There's no 'but' in this. I want you to take care of yourself. Up here,” she taps the end of her index finger against his forehead. “Because that's just as important as everything else. And you don't just need to it for me or the kids. You need to do it for yourself. Can't you see I'm trying to help you, Tyler? You're not in this alone. This fight you have with your own mind? You don't have to do this by yourself. It's been five and a half years. You'd think by now you'd realize that I'm fully capable of putting up with your bullshit.”

He grins. “In all fairness, it's not that much bullshit.”

“Oh please. You have enough bullshit for half the planet,” she teases, and then runs her hands up and down his rib cage. “Stop being so stubborn and let me take care of you.”

“You took care of me enough. When I was the hospital. When I first got home. When...”

“It doesn't stop. Honestly, stop being so goddamn pig headed and just let me love you and take care of you. Why do you have such a hard time doing that? Letting me all the way in? I'm your wife, Tyler. I'm the mother of your children. Of all the people you should be comfortable with...”

“I am comfortable with you,” he assures her. “That's not what this is about. This isn't about you. This is about me. And my fucked up head.”

“And I'm here...right in front of you...telling you that you don't have to deal with that alone. I took all this on when I married you. Willingly. It's not like you held a gun to my head.”

“According to your mother, that's exactly what I did.”

“This is a woman with more issues than the both of us put together, so take what she says with a grain of salt.”

“You know she thinks I have women all over the place? Stashed all over the globe in the different places I go to? She told she knew I was cheating on you. That day I went over to her place.”

“When would you have the time and the energy to cheat?”

“Exactly what I said. Not that I want to cheat,” he quickly adds. “You know I would never do something like that.”

“Because you know I'd cut your dick off.”

“Well yeah, but because I love you and I don't want anyone else but you. I've got my hands full with you, why the fuck would I want to take on more?”

She frowns. “You started it out so good and then it went so bad.”

“You know I'm joking,” his hands move from her hips to her back; travelling up to her shoulders, then cradling her face in his hands.

She can feel the callouses on his palms against her skin.  It's so familiar. Comforting, even. And she no longer can remember what any other man's hands had felt like. Whether it be during a tender moment such as this, when they're languidly exploring her body, or when he's rougher and more aggressive.  

“I don't want anyone else,” he says. “I haven't wanted anyone else in a long time.  Since Dhaka.”

“I thought I was just a booty call,” she chides.  “A five day booty call, but still...”

“I didn't know what you were,” he admits.  “But I knew you were more than that.”

She smiles.

“And I'll never want anyone else. This is it for me. You're it for me.  Even though I told your mother that I had another wife and six kids back in Australia.”

“What?” she laughs. “Why would....?”

“She's hell bent on thinking I've got women all over the place.”

“She's also mad we had premarital sex and I got pregnant before we were married.”

He smirks. “I guess maybe we shouldn't let her know just how wild and crazy the premarital sex was.”

“That's probably not a good idea. Although it could push her even closer towards her much needed mental breakdown. Maybe then she'd chill the fuck out.”

“She's just worried about you,” he reasons. “Do you blame her? If she wasn't worried about you before, she sure as fuck is  that she knows exactly what I do for a living.”

“I'm safer with you than anyone else.  I've never doubted that. I know how capable you are of kicking ass. I don't worry about someone trying bullshit with me. I'd know you'd wreck them.”

“It would go beyond just wrecking someone,” he says, and thinks about McMann back at the storage facility, drugged up and chained to a metal chair, restrained with zip ties. It should sicken Tyler; that he'd not resorted to the means he had, but that what his future plans entail.  It should trouble him that it's come down to this...that he's come to this.

But he feels nothing. Not even the slightest bit of disgust or remorse.  

“Are you sure you're okay?” she asks, concern darkening her once again. “Because you don't seem like you're okay.”

“I'm not,” he admits. “But I will be.”

****

He can't sleep.  The pain in his shoulder and behind the right knee intense.  A throbbing, incessant ache that seems as it is burrowing straight through the bone.  It had been a relaxing night; dinner out followed by a walk along the river, slow and intense love making that had been more powerful than anything they'd experienced lately. As if that bond they share was finally on the road to repairing itself; the weathered and tattered edges being stripped away, in hopes of things beyond made stronger than even before. That bond was something that they'd always shared;  strong, unbreakable, reliable even. The result of two broken people coming together to not only heal one another, but save each other.  But over the last two years it had begun to unravel, no matter how hard they tried to keep it from happening. There was always something they couldn't quite get past; an invisible, yet powerful force that just wouldn't let them rebuild things.

But he'd felt it. When he'd been buried deep inside of her; feeling the way she clawed at his back and his shoulders, hearing it each time his name escaped her lips, see it whenever he would pull back to look at her and their eyes would lock, gazes never wavering. It was different this time. It was needy and it was desperate but it was different.  In a way he couldn't quite explain yet he knew was a good sign.

He sits out on the balcony; the cool breeze that lingers on the night air is refreshing and effectively clears away the perspiration that had gathered on his forehead and the nape of his neck.  It's the detoxing; he'd gone cold turkey when it came to the meds for his PTSD and his pain. He hated how they made him feel; reflexes slow, brain foggy, impaired judgment in situations he needed to have a clear head in. But he'd never expected this kind of reaction; the chills, the tremors, the all over body sweats and the nausea.  He'd dealt with it before; when being weaned off the Oxy after years of relying on it. And he'd hoped he'd never have to deal with again.

He texts Yaz; the other man taking the night shift at the storage facility. McMann had woken briefly, began panicking with the hood over his head and immediately began thrashing about in the chair in a desperate attempt to free himself. Yaz had given him he remainder of the drugs, which had effectively knocked him out cold. Afterwards, he deletes all the messages in the thread. He's never felt the need to have a lock on his phone, and Esme is free to go in and out of it as she pleases, in the same way he's able to do it with hers. Trust has never been their issues. They struggled with many things, but that has never been one of them.  But he withholds downloading the software that would enable him to watch the feed of the storage site. That's the next last he needs her stumbling upon.

He messages Ovi next.  They're hasn't been any cause for concern or worry, but they have moved into Oklahoma, where Chloe has family; given refuge in an empty house while the family is away in Florida. The kids are struggling; they miss their own house, their own beds, their backyard, even the chickens and the goats. Most of all they miss their mom and dad, and are starting to worry that they're never going to come home.  And Ovi shares a video of the kids; singing some camp fire song that Chloe had taught them, and tearfully telling their mommy and daddy how much they love them and can't wait until they're all together again. He has a good cry over that; missing his kids with a level of intensity he's never experienced before. And then it turns into rage once again. Adding even more fuel to the fire that burns inside of him. The one that is dangerously close to being completely out of control.   And he remembers how Gaspar had said that tears were for the weak.  That only fragile, soft men show that kind of emotion.

He closes his eyes and leans his head against the brick wall behind him, a grimace on his face as he reaches across his body with his left harm and massages at his aching shoulder.  It's gone way beyond the lingering discomfort of a recently relocated separated shoulder. There will be specialist appointments, CAT scans, probably another surgery.    

I'm going to old for this shit, he internally laments, wincing as he attempts to roll his shoulder, hearing the pops and the cracks that accompany the movement.   Cracking an eye open when he hears the scrapping of the patio door on the track; watching his wife steps out onto the balcony, clad in one of his hoodies, a bottle of water in her hands.

“You should be asleep,” he scolds.

“So should you,” she counters, as she journeys over in her bare feet, holding out the bottle of water, then reaching into the pocket on the hoodie and pulling out a bottle of prescription meds.

He frowns. “I don't need those.”

“Bullshit. You do need them. You can take these ones, Tyler. These aren't Oxy and you know it.”

“So I go and get addicted to something else?”

“They're Tylenol three. With codeine. These are nowhere near as addictive as Oxy.  You can't go on like this. In constant pain. You deserve some relief.”

“Then fuck me again. That always makes me feel better.”

She sighs. “That's temporary.”

“So are those. At least fucking is fun.”

“It's three in the morning. I'm not in the mood for your bitchiness. Here...” she drops the bottle of water in his lap, then uncaps the bottle of meds and dumps two into her palm. “...I'm trying to help you here.”

“What the hell do you you think two is going to do? That won't even take the edge of.”

“It'll help.  Don't try my patience, please. Just humour me.  Take them. Or I'll force them down your throat.”

He snorts. “I'd like to see you try.”

She glares at him.

“Okay, maybe I wouldn't. I know you're not above kicking me in the balls and then shoving them down me throat while I scream.”

“You're worse than the kids. Just take the damn meds. Please.”

He finally relents, angrily scooping the pills out of her palm and dropping them into his mouth, swallowing them with a half of the bottle of the water.  “Do you want me to open my mouth and stick my tongue out to prove I actually took them?”

“Don't be a fuck head,” she says, and then tousles his hair. “You're going back on those others one tomorrow. For your PTSD.”

“Esme, you're not my mother.”

“No. I'm not. But I am a concerned wife and I worry about you. You're going back on them. You're not the same person when you're not on them.”

“And I'm the same person when I am on them?”

“You're calmer for one. You're not so combative.”

“I'm a fucking zombie. Is that what you want? That I'm so doped up I can't function properly?”

“I'd rather you doped up than suicidal,” she says. “I've been there, remember? When you've been in that really dark place. And I don't want you going back there. Ever. Because I worry the next time you get there, I won't get you back out. So you're going back on those meds. Because I kind of like having you around. And so do our kids.”

He sighs.

“You're going to take them because you need them. And I know that when you're thinking straight, you don't want to go back to that dark place either. And I know you don't want to leave your kids without their father.”

He nods, eyes downcast. “You're right.”

She stands between his thighs, holding his face in her hands as she drops a kiss on the top of his head. “You're going to be okay, Tyler.  I promise.”

Normally it's him saying those things. Assuring her that things are going to be alright. That no matter how dark and desolate things seem, they'll get through it. Together. Like they always have. And he places his hands on her hips and pulls her towards him, resting his forehead against her warm, comforting body.

“It's going to be okay,” her voice is soft, reassuring, as she scrapes her nails against his scalp.  “You're going to be okay. You know how you always say 'I got you' to me when I'm feeling like shit?”

He nods.

“Well I got you, Tyler. I got you.”

The tears come now. Hot and bitter. And he knows he should be ashamed of them; for being so weak and vulnerable. But for once in his life he has that one person he can let his guard down with. Who won't call him 'soft' or 'fragile'; who won't judge him for being human.

“When is it going to be enough?” she asks, combing her fingers through his hair. “When are you going to stop giving everything you have to other people? You can't do this forever.  You're tiring yourself out. Mentally and physically. You're so busy fighting other peoples' battles that you're not fighting your own. When do you finally walk away? When you can't walk away anymore? When you're dead? When I'm dead?”

“Don't say that.” his voice is muffled against his body.  “Don't ever say that.”

“You can't keep doing this. Breaking yourself down for other people. You just can't. It's going to kill you, Tyler. Maybe not physically. But it will kill you mentally. It's already starting. It's already starting and all I can do is sit and watch it happen. Watch it consume you. When am I enough?”

“You are. You are enough. You've always been enough.”

“You need to walk away. Right now. We need to get the hell out of here and just go home. There's no shame in that, you know. In saying enough is enough and worrying about yourself for once.”

“Those kids, though. I haven't found those kids.”

“And what if you never do? How long do we stay here? Another week? Another two weeks? Another month? Six months? We need to go home. To our own kids. To our own life. You can't save them all.”

“Just a few more days.  That's all I need. Just a few more days.”

“And then this ends. Whether you find those kids or not.   We get out of here and we go home and we go on with our lives.  Killing yourself isn't going to save them. And you know that.”

He nods in agreement.

She pushes her hands through his hair, gently tugging on the longer strands and pulling his head back, so he's looking up at her.  “Seven days. That's all I'm giving you. And then I go home. With or without you. Understand me? I'm done, Tyler.  With this life. I'm done. I can't do this anymore. And now you have to decide what you want. It's this life or it's me and the kids. We can't coexist with the job anymore. And we shouldn't have to.”

“You,” he immediately responds. “I want you. And my kids.”

She manages a small smile, then kisses him softly. “A week” she stresses.  “That's it. I can't give you more than that. I've already given more than I give. And I'm sorry. If that hurts you. But I don't have anything left to give you. This version of you, at least.”

“Okay,” he says, and then buries his face in her stomach once more.

Seven days. A week. Or life as he knows it is over. With no chance of getting it back.

[etherealwaifgoddess]

What He Wants (Pt. 4)

Main Characters: Bucky Barnes x Enhanced Reader

Summary:  On going series of Bucky getting his shit together and falling in love with you.

Warnings/ Content: Still angsty with more cursing. Don’t judge our boy, he’s still grieving.

Word Count: 1173

Author’s Note: Happy Monday, lovelies! I’m back to my crazy work schedule but the daily installments are still gonna happen. A bitch is determined! So... part four... you’ve managed to make a less than stellar impression on our boy but because you’re a good person you’re going to try and make it better. Emphasis on *try*.  Hope you all enjoy reading!

If you missed the other parts you can read them here: One Two Three

XOXO - Ash

What He Wants, Pt. 4

You are jolted from your memories by a loud banging on your door. You had wasted almost the entire afternoon reading and daydreaming. Michaels has come to collect you for dinner and to check on you. Sitting around the metal kitchen table with your team you can’t help but notice the empty seat that was left for your newest member. Guilt twinges fresh in your chest, knowing it is your fault the soldier is skipping dinner. You finish your plate quickly, excusing yourself to the kitchen to wash up your dishes. You hurry to fill another plate before anyone notices what you are doing and head off down the maze of hallways to the soldier’s room. You pause outside the door, knowing what you are doing is stupid but needing to try all the same. Michaels can be pissed at you later, what you had done was inexcusable and you need to apologize.

You rap lightly on the door twice and wait. A shuffling noise comes from the other side of the door and it opens a crack before slamming back shut. “Do you have a fucking death wish?” He growls from the other side of the door. 

Your temper flares despite yourself, “No, I have your fucking dinner.” You yell at him, his foul mouth rubbing off on you.

You hear a low, masculine chuckle, and the door opens wider this time. His expression is still lethal and it makes you wonder if you had heard the chuckle at all. “Gimme the food and get lost. I don’t need any more people poking around in my head.”

You slip a barefoot in the door jam  as you hand him the plate, “I’m sorry about earlier, I really am. Sometimes I do it before I can stop myself. I would never invade your privacy like that intentionally.” 

Bucky assesses you for a moment silently. He wants to hate you but finds he couldn’t despite your earlier actions. Your eyes are too open and genuine, your bottom lip distractedly full as you chew at it nervously. “Just don’t let it happen again.” He grumbles.

“I won’t, I swear. I was just caught off guard when you walked in.”

“What? Never seen a super soldier before?” He asks snarkily with just a hint of suggestiveness. 

Your eyes widen, shocked at the shift in his tone. “No, I, um,” you falter, “Your mind, it, uh, puts off static?”

Bucky grunts, “Huh. Go figure.”

You take advantage of his waning surliness, “It’s actually pretty amazing.” You continue in a rush, “I’ve never come across anything like it and-“

Bucky cuts you off mid-ramble, “Are you gonna let me eat this food or just talk to me all night?”

Your temper flares again, damn this man for getting to you, “I could do both if you let me in.” You snap.

There is that chuckle again. Your insides warm at the sound of it; low, masculine, and filled with dark enticing promises. “Come on in, but if you pop into my head again you’ll be dead before you can scream.”

You shudder, knowing he is very capable of carrying through on that threat.

Bucky’s room is almost identical to yours and you take a seat on the edge of the bed while he sits at the desk eating his food. You pick at the side of your thumb nail nervously. He seems so much larger sitting alone with you in the tiny bedroom. You don’t feel threatened despite his earlier words, the feeling is more overwhelmed than scared. He is literally a lot to take in. From his broad shoulders and the wavy brunette hair falling on them, to his solid waist and thick thighs. You have to force yourself to keep your eyes off him, you haven’t had this much trouble with your body’s responses since you were a teenager. 

“So, what exactly did you do earlier?” Bucky asks finally after finishing his plate in several rapid bites. 

You fight back against the nerves rising up, “I didn’t mean to do anything. I need you to know that.” You’d only be around him for a few days at most but it feels so urgent in that moment that he knows you aren’t a monster that pokes around in people’s minds carelessly. 

Bucky’s pale blue eyes drill into yours again as he contemplates his response. “Okay, but what the hell happened? I felt like I was getting a headache and then you yelled.”

“Do you know about my ability? Why they picked Minerva for my alias?” 

“You can get inside people’s minds, or something, right?”

“Pretty much. Think of it like having a backstage pass into someone’s head. I can see what’s up front, on their mind, and also the things in the back they think are buried.” 

“HYDRA would have killed to get their hands on you back in the war.” 

You shudder, “I wouldn’t let them get me alive. I know full well what my ability makes me capable of and I won’t use it to hurt people.”

Bucky’s laugh is acerbic, “Oh really, doll? So what’s gonna happen tomorrow when we get the bad guys cornered? Are you gonna just have a tea party with them? Or are you gonna pop their bubbles until they burst? Yeah, I heard about what you did in Turkey a few years back.” 

Bile rises up in your throat at the memory. “Fuck you, Barnes.” you spit the words at him. “Fuck you and your weird static brain.” You stand to leave but the soldier is too fast. He looms over you, taller than you by over a foot, his metal hand pushing the door shut. 

“You still haven’t told me what you did. It’s my messed up static brain, I deserve to know.”

“I heard the static when you walked in. It was like when the TV is on a nonexistent channel. It surprised me because it was so loud, I normally can control things better. But I was in and I moved beyond the static before I was really aware of what I was doing.”

“And, what did you see?” Bucky demands, his chest heaving, terrified to hear your response. 

“Agony. Pure, all consuming, agony.” 

Bucky winces, “Yeah well, welcome to my own personal hell, doll.” He moves back, opening the door for you to leave. 

Your nerves are shot from the encounter and you slip from the room taking a deep breath of fresh air in the hall. “I don’t know how you can bear that much pain.” You say before you can stop yourself. 

Bucky shrugs and shuts the door but you hear his quiet comment, “Not for much longer.” And it chills you. You wrap your arms around yourself and head back to join your team, hoping someone has started up a game of poker again. You need the friendly camaraderie of your team, your makeshift family for the past six months, to keep your mind off the very unsettling soldier down the hall. 

~~~ That’s all for today, lovelies! Thanks for reading and have a happy Monday! ~~~

[caelesjjk]

Push Part 5

It has been far too long since I have posted any of my writing, and this is honestly shorter than I wanted it to be. I hope you like it, and this is your SMUT warning. Leave me some thoughts if you’d like, it’s always nice to get that.

I stayed put inside Calum’s car for a bit. I needed to wrap my head around what had just happened before I attempted to walk anywhere.

He kissed me.

He kissed me exactly the way I have always wanted to be kissed. It felt warm and magnetic. If he hadn’t pulled away, I’m not sure I could of ever done so myself. It felt too good. Felt too right. It made me dizzy but it also made me feel alive.

All the thoughts of Mikey come flooding back. I wasn’t being fair to him by pining after his best friend and roommate. His feelings would be so hurt if he knew what had been going on. Relationships shouldn’t be built on these types of things. But the thought of hurting him was so much worse. Even after he completely stood me up, all I could think about was how to spare his feelings.

The selfish part of me wanted to feel the way Calum made me feel all the time. Bursting at the seams was the best way to describe it. I felt like I could be myself with him. It was easy and effortless to fall into this rhythm with him. Almost too easy. And that’s when I decided that I needed to know that he felt this way too. That he wanted more from me. That if there weren’t so many complications involved, he would want me too.

I got out of the car, hoping that when I got to the front door that it was unlocked. Thankfully, the universe was on my side in this moment, and the handle turned. Once I was in the warm confines of the house, it didn’t take long to find the person I was looking for. He was sitting on the couch with his head in his hands and his eyes closed tightly.

“Calum…” I said quietly, but he didn’t move or acknowledge my presence. “Calum, I want to talk about…what happened.” I crossed the room to stand in front of him, but far enough away that I wouldn’t startle him. He sighs loudly.

“I can’t believe I did that.” He says roughly.

“Why?” I ask.

“Because you’re my best friends girlfriend, Isabella! Do you not see the fucking problem with that?” His hands fly off of his face and he looks up at me with an exasperated look on his face.

“Of course I do! But I…I didn’t want you to stop.” My voice shakes. His chocolate eyes are completely focused on me as I talk.

“But you shouldn’t. I shouldn’t have let it get like this. You’re not supposed to feel anything for me.” He brings his head down to look at the ground again.

“Too late. It’s too fucking late for that.” I can feel every muscle in my body going rigid.

“We can’t do this. Just, please pretend like this didn’t happen.” Calum stands up quickly, making his way down the hallway towards his bedroom, the door slamming loudly behind him, making me jump.

I wasn’t sure what else to do. It felt like someone had punched me right in the stomach. I’m not sure what I had been hoping for, but it definitely wasn’t this feeling. I wiped the half dried tears off of my face and tightened my coat around my body before heading back out of the house to my car.

And because the universes luck had run out for me apparently, my damn car wouldn’t start. I tried turning the key over and over and it did nothing but tick. I closed my eyes tightly and let my forehead fall against the steering wheel repeatedly.

“Why?” I whispered to myself, sliding out of the car and walking to the front door again. I couldn’t bring myself to just walk inside again, so I started knocking. “Calum please open the door.” I yelled. I waited a few more minutes before pounding on the door again.

“Jesus, Bambi. What the hell is wrong?” His hair was sticking up in random places like he’d been running his fingers through it over and over.

“My car won’t start.” I sigh.

“Just stay in Mike’s room, yeah?” He opens the door and lets me inside again.

“Yeah.” I say quietly, walking past him and directly into Michael’s room. I shut the door quickly, pacing back and forth across the room a few times.

I needed him to know that I was prepared for the consequences that being with him would bring. It would mean losing Michael. It would mean hurting him immensely. It would mean admitting to Michael that I didn’t have feelings for him, but in fact had undeniable feelings for his best friend. It would mean living with guilt for the foreseeable future. But something told me Calum was worth it.

I changed into one of Michael’s t-shirts and laid down in bed, hoping that maybe I could sleep and make a decision in the morning. But there was no way my mind was going to allow that to happen. I tossed and turned for hours before it just became too much.

I got up out bed and padded barefoot out into the hallway. I looked out into the living room, thinking I could just go and watch some TV until I fell asleep. But then I looked across the hallway at Calum’s bedroom door. It was closed but there was definitely a light on inside. I quietly walked over to the door and stood in front of it. Did I try to talk to him again? I touched the door handle, debating whether or not I was going to open it. But in the end, I didn’t have to open it, because it came swinging open.

“Um…hi.” I can feel my face heat up with embarrassment now that I’ve been caught lurking outside of his room.

“What are you doing out here, Bambi?” His voice is quiet. He’s also standing in front of me shirtless with just some blue basketball shorts on. Fucking hell.

“I was just thinking…about trying to talk to you again.” I looked down at my feet, I couldn’t look at him while he was half naked in front of me.

“We shouldn’t.” He says, making my heart drop even more. “But, I was about to come find you and make a horrible fucking decision.” He huffs out a long breath.

“What decision?” I ask. My legs were shaking and barely holding me up.

That’s when I feel his pointer finger come beneath my chin, gently bringing my tired gray eyes up to meet his waiting brown ones. His thumb gently caresses my chin and along my jaw, his eyes never leaving mine. My breath is stuck in my chest with nowhere to go. I barely notice his other hand sliding into my hair and softly pulling me forward so that my body presses against his.

“I don’t know when it happened. But you have me, Isabella.” His forehead comes down to rest against mine. My mouth is dry and my entire body is quaking.

Somehow, I manage to lift my extremely heavy arms up to wrap around his waist, the feeling of his warm skin under my fingertips was better than all the times I imagined it happening. I skimmed them up and down his back just to relish in the way it felt as much as I could. Calum’s grip in my hair tightened slightly as I touched him, the tug was something I enjoyed more than I thought that I would.

“Kiss me again, Calum. Please.” My voice sounds scratchy from how dry my throat is.

“You’re too pretty to beg, Bambi. Take what you want.” He smiles, and I practically lunge forward to get to his lips.

It’s a hungry kiss. One that makes up for all the ones we should have had before this. My hands leave his skin and find the black curls on top of his head instead. His hands have moved down to my hips, his fingertips gently digging into me and holding me against him. I took the first initiative to slip my tongue against his lips. He hummed before letting his tongue dart out to tangle with mine. I was so consumed by him. The way he tasted. The way he smelled. The way he felt. Would there ever be enough?

When I captured his bottom lip between my teeth, gently biting down, I was surprised to feel my feet come up off the ground as he picked me up. His hands gripped my thighs as he swiftly turned his body and pushed us into his room.  

I didn’t have a chance to look around or admire anything in his room, even though I had wondered what it was like in here since the day I met him. I was too preoccupied with his lips on my neck. He just stood there at the foot of his bed, holding me for a moment pressing wet open-mouthed kisses against my skin. All I could do was hold onto him tighter, afraid that if I let go I was going to wake up from this dream and be back in Michael’s bed.

“Calum…” I dreamily sighed at the feeling of his lips.

“Yes, angel?” He said against the skin of my shoulder. I liked this nickname.

“I want you…I want you so much.” I practically moaned as he nipped at my ear lobe. Calum dragged his lips back to mine, kissing me deeply, before he playfully tossed me onto his bed. I couldn’t help but laugh out loud as I lightly bounced against the mattress with my arms above my head.

“Tell me everythin’ you want, sweetheart.” He says, kneeing up onto the bed. He licks his thick lips while his fingertips ghost across the skin of my leg, leaving goosebumps in their wake as they move upwards. I pull my bottom lip between my teeth, using my feet to hook behind his thighs and pull him towards me. He smiled down at me once his body was over mine.

“Need you here.” I pointed to my lips, angling my head up to try and get to his lips faster. He smiled again, the crinkly-eyed type of smile that made my chest tighten.

“You’re something else, Bambi.” His nose touches mine before I finally get to feel his pillowy soft lips pressed against mine again.

It’s a little softer this time. Not quite so rushed. His mouth was made to be on mine, and I never wanted it to stop. I brought my hands up to his chest and slipped them up to his shoulders, gently pulling him down so he would press against me completely. I didn’t want that space between our bodies anymore. All I could think about was memorizing every inch of him. Every dip of muscle, every splash of ink, every bit of skin I could get my hands on. But then I felt his lips form yet another smile against my mouth when I got what I wanted. Our teeth bumped slightly and we both laughed until his eyes met mine again and his face became serious.

“What is it?” I asked.

“You’re fuckin’ beautiful.” His fingers pushed some hair away from my face and my eyes closed at the touch. “Want you to know exactly how beautiful you are…” He whispers in my ear. His hot breath makes my hips buck up involuntarily. “Can I show you?” He whispers again, and I almost combust. Unable to speak at this point, I nod my head ‘yes’ what seems like a 100 times.

Calum’s lips come back to mine, relaxing my body back into the mattress. He pushes back up onto his knees, big hands hooking behind my knees and swiftly pulling me towards him in a quick motion.

“Take this off for me?” He fiddles with the bottom of Michael’s shirt that I’m wearing, an almost sad look crossing his face when he realizes just that. I quickly sit up and rip the shirt over my head, getting it out of sight and out of mind before he thinks about it too long.

I lay back against his soft sheets, nothing on but the solid black boy shorts I had been wearing underneath the shirt. I watch as Calum’s eyes focus back on my body, and as they slightly widen at the sight in front of him. My chest is literally heaving watching him drink me in. His fingers are back, ghosting over the skin of my hips and my stomach. I can barely keep my eyes open when his thumb reaches one of breasts, and slowly rubs the rough pad over my nipple. It was like that was all I needed for the small burning embers burning in my stomach to completely burst.

“Calum…it’s too much to go this slow…” I breathe.

“Takin’ my time with you, Bams. If I get inside you now, I won’t last a second.” He smirks down at me, and I have to clench my thighs together to get some relief. I never thought dirty words would get me so incredibly worked up.

He brought his mouth down so his lips could kiss the worlds hottest line kisses up my stomach and through the valley of my breasts. He sucked lightly at my collar bones and gently nipped at my chest until just the faintest of marks rose against my skin. My fingers laced into his black curls, gently pulling them through the dark strands over and over. His nose nudged at my chin and jaw as he placed a few wet open mouthed kisses there. I had never been this close to an orgasm from just being touched and kissed.

I was going to lose my mind if he didn’t give me just a little bit more. So I wrapped a hand around one of his wrists and moved it the best I could down my body and towards my underwear, practically begging him to touch me and give me some type of relief.

“That what you want?” His voice is deep as he slowly lifts his head to meet my eyes again. I nod my head yes again.

His long fingers push my underwear to the side, slipping inside so he can feel exactly what he’s been doing to me. My eyes practically roll to the back of my skull as my back arches up off the mattress. His other hand is holding onto my hip but his eyes are angled down, watching his fingers disappear.

“Calum…please.” The words are desperate and the sound of my voice is almost unfamiliar.

“So fuckin’ wet for me, pretty girl.” His fingers dip a little deeper, I can feel the cold metal of the rings he’s wearing touching my skin and its practically euphoric.

He pulls his fingers from me, making me whine at the loss of them. I watch as he brings his middle finger down to my mouth and slipping it inside when I eagerly open my lips for him. I suck his digit and swirl my tongue around it a few times, never letting him break eye contact with me.

“Fuck. Come here.” His other hand slides under my lower back, pulling me up and bringing me into his lap where his lips immediately find mine again. “You sure this is what you want?” His hands cup my burning cheeks as our breaths mix together.

“I know that I want you…and I don’t care what I have to do to have you.” Every word was true. I couldn’t stop the way I felt about Calum.

“Thank god you found me.” He says, lips barely brushing over mine, his hands sliding down my sides until his fingers can hook into the band of my underwear and slip them down over my hips.

I let my fingertips slide down the front of his torso, feeling his muscles tense beneath my touch until they reached his band of his basketball shorts and quickly making work of those and pushing them off. My hand instinctively comes back around to wrap around his hard cock that had sprung up. He was hot and heavy in the palm of my hand and the sounds leaving his mouth as I touched were every bit of the word sinful.

I move my hands back his chest, pushing slightly so he knows I want him to lay back. He obliges, laying back and moving up so that his back is pressed against the headboard.

“What are you thinking?” He asks, watching as I move up his body, kissing the tops of his thighs a few times.

“I think…I want to ride you.” My cheeks heat up with nerves. Not sure how he will react.

“You should definitely do that.” He smiles in attempt to comfort me, and it works a little.

“I might not be that great at it…” I straddle his thighs and wrap my arms around his neck.

“That’s not possible, Isabella.” He takes my chin in his fingers and brings my eyes to his. “I’ve been thinking about you riding my cock for months…you could not possibly disappoint me, baby.”

“Is that all you think about?” My voice shakes a little, because I’m not sure if I want to know the answer.

“No.” His hands grip my hips tightly, hovering me just above his waiting length. “I think about sitting with you and reading book after book…” He release a bit of his grip so that his tip is just my entrance. “I think about making you breakfast in bed…” He slips inside me the slightest bit more and I bite my lip to keep from clenching around him. “I think about listening to you talk about all those fingerpaintings your students make for you because they love you…” He’s almost fully inside me now, and my chest is about to burst from his sweet confessions. “And I think about how much you fuckin’ mean to me, Izzy. How much it kills me that you’re not mine.” I’m fully seated on his cock now, my head thrown back in complete euphoria as he slowly moves his hips up into mine.

“I am yours, Cal.” I tell him, as I lean forward and connect our lips, moving my hips up and sliding back down for the first time. Calum grunts lightly and pulls and grips my hips again.

He holds me close as a find a comfortable rhythm. Constantly telling me how well I was doing, his thumb slipping to my clit now and then. I was a moaning, sweaty mess and the knot in my stomach was on the verge of bursting at any moment. Calum kissed my shoulders and chest over and over and it was so perfect in every way. The headboard knocked lightly against the wall as our moans and breaths continued to fill the room.

“Need you to come for me, sweetheart.” He finally said. “Need you so bad, Izzy.”  His words went straight to the knot in my stomach and pulled it loose. My orgasm whipped through my body like a wildfire and consumed me whole.

As my movements slowed down, Calum flipped me back onto the bed, so he could hit a whole other angle of pleasure. He was deeper than I thought anyone could ever be and he was thrusting and chasing his own high.

“Fuck, Calum…please.” I needed him so badly.

His hips sputtered and his lips found mine again. My lips were so sore from kissing, but they would never get tired of kissing him. I felt him release inside me, and collapse on top of me. I was convinced that nothing would ever feel this good. I would never want anyone else the way I wanted him.

His skin was hot and damp as I wrapped my legs around his waist and laced my hands back into his sweaty curls. I kissed his neck and took a deep breath, trying to commit all of this to memory.

“You’re alright?” He asks into my neck.

“More than alright.” He laughs gently, slowly rolling off of me and onto the bed, pulling against his side.

“Should we have done that?” He asks next.

“Yes.” I was quick to answer.

“How are we supposed to even go about telling Mike? This is gonna fuck with him big time. I’ll have to move or something…” He throws his arm over his eyes.

“Do you regret it?” I ask him now. He sighs, moving his arm and looking up at me.

“No. I don’t regret you for a second.” He leans up and pecks my lips.

“What do we do then? Talk to Michael when he gets home?” I stroke the light stubble on his jaw with my thumb.

“Yeah…yeah we gotta talk to him.” Calum clears his throat and licks his lips.

“Okay…should I um…go back to the other room or…” I ask.

“Don’t even think about it.”

@maoricth @slimthicccal @bbycal @kinglyhood @sugarcoated-pain @shower-me-with-roses @c-dizzle-swizzlex @calumhampton @sugarcoatedcalum@calthesensation @cheyenne-in-wonderland @softboycal @moonlightcalum@unconditionalcalum @rotten-kandy

[1dffexchange]

Warm Blood

To: Eriza @booksncoffee

From: Natasha @wokeuptired​

Summary: This is ridiculous, and Carver knows it.

She doesn’t even know his name, and he’s all she can think about. One kiss at an office Christmas party—an office where she doesn’t even work most of the time—and she can’t get him off her mind. 

It doesn’t help that she’s spending a week working in said office, sitting at a neat freak’s desk and trying not to leave fingerprints behind while looking over her shoulder every five minutes to see if he—Mistletoe Boy—is at the coffee pot. 

She’s beginning to think she dreamed him up.

ONE.

Carver Cantrell is not somebody who makes stupid decisions.

That is the first thing she would want you to know about her: this is not her modus operandus. She is not the kind of girl who buys a plane ticket and jets off to Paris on a whim. She doesn’t purchase expensive articles of clothing without stalking them online for a few weeks first. The wildest evening she has is when she orders something different from the Chinese place on the corner. Nobody would ever call her a wild child.

And she certainly doesn’t kiss boys she’s never met under the mistletoe at the office holiday party just because she feels like it.

Except she just did.

“Wow.”

Carver pulls back, unsure of which of them said that, her or the guy she’s just been locking lips with. Her heart is beating so loud she can hear it in her ears, and she can feel her blood hot in her cheeks. His eyes are bright blue, so blue she can feel them in her toes.

Which is a feeling she’s never felt before. Crazy, because Carver thought, right before this second, that she’d felt them all.

Her emotions have tended towards the severe ever since she was a kid. Imagine six year-old Carver, throwing a fit at the supermarket because her favorite cereal was out of stock, and her helpless mother, standing three feet away with her hands up so that other shoppers wouldn’t assume she was the cause of the tantrum. Skip to middle school, when Carver didn’t eat for two days after she and her best friend—the same Jess whom she roomed with in college, walked beside at graduation, and is currently accompanying to this party—had a fight. Just last month, she watched a Hallmark movie where a woman reunited with her teenage love after twenty-five years, and she sobbed for an hour.

Anger, sadness, happiness—Carver has always felt them all in extremes. She’s learned over the years to take deep breaths until the emotions calm down so she can figure out which ones to listen to before she acts, but they’re still there, nonetheless.

Like two minutes ago, when she turned a corner on her way to the restroom and walked right into the sturdy chest of the guy who currently has his arms wrapped around her. He sparked something in her right away, and the inches they’ve just put between them have done nothing to dampen that flame.

“Sorry,” he says. He tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, his fingertips warm. “I probably shouldn’t have done that.”

This is where she should say something like, “Fuck that, do it again!” but her mind draws a blank. Her brain is too busy considering his accent, which is decidedly not California surfer boy like every boy she’s dated since she moved here a year ago, to come up with something witty to fire back at him.

“Hey, Car—”

She looks over my shoulder to see Jess coming around the corner. She has a plate in her hand piled high with Carver’s weakness: angel food cake, the literal food of angels.

“I found this,” she says, holding it out. “And you. And, you’re busy, apparently—who’s this?”

Carver follows her gaze back to the boy in question, who’s pushing a hand through his hair and grinning. His hair looks like it’s straight out of a shampoo commercial. She should’ve touched it during their kiss. What a missed opportunity.

“Sorry, I—I was actually on my way out,” he says. His eyes return to her as he brushes a fingertip across her cheek before stepping back. “It was nice to meet you.”

“You too,” she manages before he turns away and disappears around the corner.

Jess grabs her elbow. “What was that? Who was that?”

Carver lets her tug her back into the party. “I have no idea.”

Five minutes later, Carver’s shoveling angel food cake into her mouth and recounting the last hour as Jess rambles on with the office manager, Kayla. Michael Buble’s Christmas album plays in the background, stockings hang on the wall, and a small Christmas tree sits in the corner, but nothing can disguise the fact that this is an office. A well-designed office, but an office nonetheless.

Jess has worked for West & Up for a year, and Carver’s going on month three. West & Up is one of those newer companies that’s popped up as interior design has become accessible to anybody with internet access. It’s part online home goods retailer (think Wayfair but a bit less fashionable), part interior design firm. Jess does web design, and Carver crunch numbers.

They both work in the Century City office, where a bunch of nerds in glasses occupy cubicles in a decidedly less fashionable building right next to the freeway. Carver had never been to the Santa Monica office before tonight, and she’s definitely been missing out, because not only can you smell the ocean from the balcony, cute boys also work here.

One cute boy in particular.

Carver has never felt such an instant connection with someone before, and she can already tell it’s going to consume me. This is how her mind works: it can only focus on one thing at a time, and that one thing nearly always becomes an obsession. That’s why she’s so good at math. Her OCD keeps her doing problems over and over again until she’s sure they’re perfect. And her OCD will no doubt have her going over that kiss incessantly.  

“Carver, it’s going to be so great to have you here in January,” Kayla says. “I’m so happy you said yes.”

Carver swallows a bite of angel food cake and fakes a smile. Truth be told, she’s not looking forward to her temporary reassignment to the Santa Monica office. She hates changes to her routine, and she hates things that aren’t her choice. Kayla says she agreed, but when her supervisor presented it to her, it didn’t really seem like saying no was an option.

“I’m really excited to see how things work around here,” she says, which is about the best answer she can manage without the unrelenting guilt she always feels when she lies. She doesn’t tell Kayla she doesn’t understand why she can’t continue her internal audit of the company from her own cubicle.  

She has a slight suspicion that she’s going to arrive for her first day in January and be instructed to count the pens in the copy room.

TWO.

Kayla Warner is not the kind of person who takes no for an answer.

This is typically something that works in Niall’s favor, because Kayla is the office manager and when she’s on your side, she gets shit done. Niall befriended her on his first day at West & Up, and ever since, she’s been going to war for him. She got him the best cubicle (aka the one furthest from the break room), always makes sure he leaves promptly at five, even if she has to drag him out herself, and never fails to order his favorite brand of pens. Usually Kayla Warner is his hero.

But now that she’s decided to be his matchmaker, he’s moving her decidedly into the “villain” column. Once Kayla has an idea in her head, there’s absolutely no talking her out of it. Which doesn’t mean Niall isn’t going to try.

THIS IS A BAD IDEA.

Niall watches as three little dots appear on his phone, showing that Kayla is responding to his all-caps message. He never should’ve told her about Mistletoe Girl in the first place, but Kayla could tell that something was up when he suddenly appeared way more interested in Kayla’s incessant stream of office gossip than he used to be. Kayla practically sniffed it on him.

“You kissed somebody at the Christmas party, didn’t you?” she demanded, the question mark only there out of politeness. Kayla’s like a bloodhound when it comes to secrets, especially secrets related to the affairs of the heart.

Not that Niall’s heart is involved here. He really doesn’t want it to be, because it shouldn’t be, not after one kiss. Even if it was the most perfect kiss he’s ever experienced in all his years of kissing–barely a decade, so he wouldn’t exactly call himself an expert, but he knows a good kiss when he sees it.

Kayla’s still typing, so Niall navigates away from the text message thread and opens Instagram. He’d scoured the employee profiles a zillion times over the past few weeks searching for Mistletoe Girl, looking at all the Carters and Carolyns and Carlas that work for the company, and he couldn’t find her. But now, thanks to Kayla, he knows her name, her actual name, so he can stalk her on social media.

Carver Cantrell. Her profile is private, so Niall can’t see much beyond her bio and her profile picture (her smiling face pressed up against a puppy’s much smaller one), but it’s gratifying to know that she’s real. It’s a relief to know that he didn’t imagine the whole thing. And it’s nice to know that she loves dogs. Loving dogs is a good sign.

Niall doesn’t blame himself for questioning his sanity. It was like something out of a romance film, wasn’t it? Kayla’s obsessed with those things, “Love Actually” and “27 Dresses” and all that. It’s not every day that you’re on the way back from the bathroom at the dreaded office Christmas party when a cute girl crashes into you right under the mistletoe. And it’s certainly not every day that a kiss with a stranger makes you reexamine the way you look at the world.

Kayla’s reply rolls in, distracting Niall from reading Carver’s bio for the hundredth time.

THIS IS A GREAT IDEA

YOU CAN LEAVE HER CHOCOLATE AND FLIRTY NOTES ON YOUR DESK

I’M A FUCKING GENIUS

The messages arrive one after the other in rapid succession. Kayla texts like she talks: without breathing. It overwhelmed Niall when they first met, the speed at which Kayla thinks and talks and moves, but he’s slightly less intimidated by her now. Slightly.

Sighing, Niall clicks through to the text thread and hits the call button. It only rings once before Kayla picks up.

“You’re not going to be able to talk me out of this,” she says. Something clangs in the background; she’s probably making cookies again.

“It’s a terrible idea in every way,” Niall says. He stands from the couch and goes into the kitchen. Speaking with Kayla always makes him feel like he’s not doing enough. Like he ought to be doing at least 6 things simultaneously while talking to her. “You know I hate people in my workspace. It’s like you’re making us move in together, and we’ve barely even spoken.”

Kayla laughs. “Exactly. This is a great trial run. I’m pretty sure she’s just as much of a neat freak as you are, but if she’s not, you’ll be able to tell, and then you can abort the mission.”

“I want to abort the mission already.” Niall opens the fridge and starts unloading it of containers full of leftovers that should’ve been thrown out weeks ago. “You’re the one who’s not letting me.”

“That’s because I am your best friend and I care about your well-being.”

“But—”

“I’m not hearing it, Niall Horan,” Kayla says. “Now stop pretending to clean your kitchen, hang up the phone, and figure out a plan for tomorrow, will you? I can’t do everything for you.”

“Are you sure you can’t?” Niall asks. “Because you’ve done the rest of this for me. So I think you could just—”

“Don’t be facetious, Niall, it doesn’t suit you,” Kayla says before hanging up.

Sometimes Kayla reminds Niall of his mother, and since she’s far away across the Atlantic Ocean, he doesn’t really mind that.

Except right now. Right now, it’s driving him crazy.

THREE.

On Monday, January 7th, Carver parks her car in the lot outside West & Up’s Santa Monica office. She’s ten minutes early, and she fully intends to use all ten of those minutes to have a panic attack in her car.

There’s a post-it on her dashboard that, at her therapist’s suggestion, reads, “EVERYTHING WILL BE FINE,” and she repeats that aloud to herself a few times, but it doesn’t help. She makes a list in her mind of all the things that could go wrong. Maybe her cubicle neighbor will smell like baloney sandwiches. Maybe she will embarrass herself in front of the CEO. Or, maybe, worst of all, she might run into Mistletoe Boy.

She’s done her best over the past couple of weeks to forget about him, but she hasn’t gotten very far. And Jess’s constant mentioning of the kiss hasn’t helped things. She’s scoured the employee profiles on the company website for the guy with the soft lips and the foreign accent that Carver kissed at the Christmas party, and she’s come up empty.

“He must be one of the ones with no photo,” Jess has insisted multiple times.

“Or maybe he doesn’t work at West & Up anymore,” Carver told Jess last night as she was waxing on about how her chances of running into him again were about to increase exponentially. “Or maybe he never did, and he was crashing the party and that’s why he ducked away so fast. Or maybe he’s engaged to one of the girls from HR, or—”

“Or maybe you’re looking for excuses,” Jess said, jabbing an elbow into Carver’s side. They were watching “Set It Up” on Netflix for the zillionth time, and Jess had paused in speaking all the lines along with the actors to remind Carver that she may have watched her chance at one true love walk out the door a few weeks back. “Do not hide in your cubicle for the next week, okay? You need to, like, make yourself visible.”

“How do you suppose I do that?”

“Go to the coffee machine, like, all the time. Introduce yourself to everyone you can.” Jess turned to Carver, her eyes wide, her tone serious. “And, for the love of God, make a fucking move if you see him again.”

Carver tries not to think about that right now, as she squints into the sunlight and curse herself, again, for leaving the house without her sunglasses this morning, as that’s basically a death sentence in Los Angeles.

She reads her post-it again: “EVERYTHING WILL BE FINE.”

Then she takes a deep breath and opens the car door.

Kayla practically pounces on her when the elevator doors open on the third floor. She checks Carver in and shows her where the restroom is and babbles the entire time about how great her New Year’s was and how she hopes Carver’s was great too and did she watch the ball drop this year?   

“You can use Horan’s desk,” she says, leading Carver through the office. It’s an open plan, desks everywhere, most of them totally cluttered. Paper everywhere, knicknacks, dusty computer screens. But the desk Kayla guides Carver to is wiped clean. “He’s one of our architects. He’s on site all week.”

“You’re sure he won’t mind?” Carver runs her eyes over the spotless desktop. There’s a pothos plant in a terra cotta pot next to a black mug holding six identical black pens, and that’s it. The only bit of personalization she can spot is a dinosaur sticker on the corner of the computer monitor. Horan, whoever he is, clearly values cleanliness over, well, pretty much everything else.

It actually reminds Carver a little bit of her workspace, but at least she’s got more than one plant.

“Oh, yeah,” Kayla says. “He won’t care. He might come by in the evenings, though, so you should be out of here by five if you can, and don’t leave anything lying around. He’s a bit of a neat freak.”

“Right.” Carver pushes the keyboard out of the way and puts her laptop on the desk. “I’ll be out of here by five.”

“You know where I am if you need anything. See you at lunch!” Kayla calls as she disappears around the corner

Carver opens her laptop and clicks through her email to the spreadsheets the company wants her to look through. Luckily she hasn’t been asked to count any pencils yet, but the day is still young.

By lunch time, her fingers hurt and her eyes are dry. Kayla takes her to a salad place across the street, and Carver forces myself to choke down kale topped with assorted vegetables. When she was younger, she believed that she’d magically develop a taste for salad once she reached her twenties, since it’s what twenty-something professionals always ate for lunch on tv shows, but it hasn’t happened yet.

Then she returns to Horan’s immaculate cubicle, puts her earbuds in, and zones into the work. She used to think that she’d have to hate her job in her twenties, just as she’d have to love salads, but the truth is, she loves it. She loves columns of numbers and when there’s a knot in the data she has to untangle. She loves losing herself in it, because in the numbers there is always an answer.

In life, there often aren’t answers, and she’s not a fan of ambiguity.

Before she leaves, she can’t resist opening the top drawer to see if that’s where the owner of this desk hides his mess. But, no, it’s just as organized as the surface. Plastic bins hold pens, paperclips, pencils, and post-its, all in separate sections. There isn’t a thing out of place. She wonders if he uses dinner plates with dividers, too.

Carver snags a bright pink post-it out of the drawer and scrawls a quick note on it before sticking it to the monitor.

Thanks for letting me use your desk. I tried not to leave too many fingerprints. Sorry for snooping through your drawer, but I wanted to find your organizational weakness. Apparently you don’t have any. Congratulations. - Carver

FOUR.

Niall chickened out.

After all that berating last night and a pep talk via text from Kayla this morning, he chickened out. He didn’t leave anything at his desk for Carver, and, to top it off, he hasn’t been able to stop thinking about it.

Every day at the Wilson project is a busy day, and today was no exception. This morning, two of the guys ripped out the old range and found faulty wiring, which is a remodel nightmare second only to flooding. That should’ve been enough to distract Niall, but it wasn’t. He pulled out a pen to make some notes and wondered what kind of pens Carver likes. He looked at granite samples with the Wilsons and wondered if Carver would think the black countertop would darken the room.

And then he thought about how fucked up it was that he was thinking about what Carver would think, considering he doesn’t even know her. Fucked up and creepy.

But here he is anyway, driving to the office in 5 o’clock traffic to see if Carver’s left any mark on his cuble. A very small, slightly creepy part of him is hoping he’ll be able to catch a trace of her perfume lingering in the air. He doesn’t have the vocabulary to describe scents, but he smelled it on her the night they kissed, and he knows he’ll recognize it instantly if he smells it again.

Kayla’s already left, which means he doesn’t have to face an interrogation when he passes her desk. The entire office is pretty much cleared out, which is how he likes it. Honestly,if he could work from home, he would. Other people are exhausting.

Which is part of the reason he’s afraid, he thinks, of meeting Carver. He’s idealized her so much in his head, but what if when he meets her, really meets her, she’s boring? Or annoying or just plain exhausting? What if spending time with her makes him wish he were spending time alone? The disappointment could crush him.

Which is why it’s easier to pretend he doesn’t care.

As he rounds the corner towards his cubicle, his heartbeat quickens, which is a total betrayal of his attempts to be nonchalant about this whole thing. He takes a deep breath, but it doesn’t help. Then his desk comes to view.

Nothing appears to be amiss. His chair is tucked in just the way he likes it, all of his black pens are still in their black mug, and his dinosaur sticker hasn’t moved. But—

Wait, what is that?

Niall grabs the post-it off the monitor and brings it up to his face. Is this Carver’s handwriting? It’s much neater than he’d expected based on the way her hair was slightly askew at the party. One’s general upkeep, he’s noticed, tends to belay their handwriting, and their handwriting reflects their level of organizational mastery.

Niall’s own hair is always flawless.

He reads the note to himself a couple of times, smiling at the mention of fingerprints. Apparently Carver has a sense of humor. And she might like post-its just as much as he does.

Hmm. Niall takes a seat at his desk, opens the drawer for another post-it, and grabs a pen. Time to come up with something clever to say in response.

FIVE.

In the morning, there’s a new post-it note on the monitor. Carver grins when she first sees it, because she’s always loved the idea of penpals, letters exchanged between strangers. She’s never had one herself, but novels always made it seem like you could tell your friend who lived worlds away things you couldn’t tell your BFF who lived next door.

Carver doesn’t have any such expectations of Niall Horan, of course, but it still makes her a bit giddy to see that he’s written her back.

But that feeling disappears as soon as she reads the note.

Thanks for your note, and thanks for keeping my desk clean. I don’t know what you’ve heard about me, but I don’t really mind fingerprints. As long as there aren’t too many. And you keep them off the computer screen. You have neat handwriting, though, so I think I can live with you using my desk for the week. - Niall

Carver turns the post-it face-down on the desk. Maybe she was slightly rude in my post-it, but his message is ruder. “I can live with you using my desk for a week”—who talks to a stranger like that? It might be sarcasm, but he should know better than to be sarcastic in a note. There’s no room for nuance in a post-it note, they’re much too small.

What Carver wants to say in response is also much too long for a post-it note, so she yanks open the top drawer in search of notepaper. Her desk back in her cubicle hosts a variety of cute notepads and post-its, but all she can find in Niall’s desk is a small yellow legal pad. Despite its unattractiveness, it’ll have to do.

She does decorate the corner with a giant flower, though, courtesy of one of Niall’s five identical black pens.

Dear Niall,

Thanks for your note. I appreciate that you can live with me using your desk for a week, although I’d like you to know that I’d gladly vacate for another workspace if given the chance, since you seem like an asshole. Is that your weakness? You don’t know how to be nice to strangers on post-it notes? Good luck with that. I hope you enjoy being alone.

Note written—or at least started; Carver thinks she might have more to say later—she shoves it under Niall’s keyboard and opens her laptop. She’ll leave it there for the day, keeping it in the back of her mind, and right before she leaves, she’ll decided whether or not to leave it.

No impulsive decisions, even in anger.

Except maybe she should be impulsive. Maybe she should stand up for herself, even though there may be negative consequences, like an even ruder reply tomorrow, or a chastising by Kayla or even a meeting with HR for inter-office harassment.

Carver goes back and forth about it all morning. She spends a bit of mental energy regretting leaving a note at all yesterday, and then a bit more energy wishing she’d asked Kayla more questions about the owner of the desk. Like, is he a nutcase? Is he obsessed with fingerprints? Because he catalogues them? Because he’s a crazy, stalking, murdering, psychopath?

By lunch time, Carver feels like she’s bursting at the seams. Kayla shows up for lunch, and Carver practically leaps out of her seat. They barely make it out of the building before Carver brings it up.

“Hey, so this Horan guy? What’s he like?”

Kayla looks over her shoulder as she pushes out the front door of the building and into the sunlight. “Why do you ask?”

Carver wrinkles her nose at Kayla’s smile. “He left me a super rude note.”

The smile drops instantly. “What?”

Carver squints into the sunlight and stops to fish her sunglasses out of her purse. “Yeah,” she says to Kayla. “I left him a note last night, thanking him for letting me use his desk and whatnot, and I come in this morning to a note that’s like, don’t leave too many fingerprints and I won’t kill you.”

“What? There’s no way Niall wrote that,” Kayla says.

Carver follows her into the same salad place as yesterday. “I mean, I may’ve exaggerated a little. But that was the gist of it.”

The conversation pauses as Carver orders her food—the same salad as yesterday—but Kayla brings it up again as soon as the two of them are seated. The restaurant isn’t exactly quiet, but Kayla is not the kind of person, Carver’s beginning to realize, who lets a loud space hinder her conversation.

“Niall is not an asshole, I promise,” Kayla says. She extracts a metal straw out of her bag and sticks it in her drink. “He’s just not that good at people.”

“What?”

Kayla shrugs. “Listen, I’ve been friends with him for three years. He doesn’t always make the best first impression. Like, he tries, but it’s hard for him.”

What? Carver thinks the question this time instead of voicing it. She understands being socially awkward, but the best thing about written correspondence is that you can revise it a thousand times before sending it off (or, as it were, leaving it taped to a monitor).

“Like, okay,” Kayla continues. “He probably thought he was being funny. But he’s such a dingbat he doesn’t realize that sarcasm doesn’t translate when it’s written down, or he thought he was making a joke and he didn’t realize that he’s not funny. Like, he’s really not funny.”

Carver tries to think of something to say in response, but she finds herself coming up empty. Kayla’s trying to apologize for Niall, but Carver’s realizing that she really doesn’t want to hear it. Luckily her salad arrives, saving her. She shoves a forkful of lettuce into her mouth and chews as Kayla rambles on.

Finally, Kayla pauses, so Carver asks what she really wants to know. “So, do you think I should write back?”

Kayla’s fork hovers in the air on its way to her mouth. “Do you want to write back?”

Carver blinks. “I don’t know what I want to do.”

“Well, I’m a firm believer that you should do whatever feels right to you,” Kayla says, setting her fork down. “So maybe what you need to do is figure out what it is you want to do.”

Carver nods, repeating that over and over in her head until it starts to make sense.

At least, the words make sense. She still has no idea whether or not she should leave the note.

SIX.

“I wrote her a note.”

“Yeah, I know, you idiot,” Kayla says sharply. “What the fuck were you thinking?”

Niall nearly drops his phone. That would be especially bad considering he’s currently squatting over a puddle of water in the middle of the Wilson construction site. He’s downgrading it from kitchen to construction site, since every 10 minutes a new problem arises that requires something else to be ripped out or torn up. The drywall is gone, revealing rotting studs, and when they pulled up the tile this morning, they found mold in the floorboards.

This house isn’t even old. Niall doesn’t understand it.

But he has to deal with it nonetheless.

“What are you talking about?” he asks.

“She asked me about you,” Kayla says. She’s whispering, like maybe she’s sitting at her desk right now and doesn’t want to be overheard. “Hold on, let me go outside.”

Niall stands up and turns his back on the other guys staring hopelessly into the puddle. He walks into the Wilsons’ backyard, which borders a strip of land known for being a mountain lion hotspot. When he first moved to LA, Niall was fascinated with them, with P-22 and his brave freeway crossings (both the 405 and the 101) and  his adventures around Griffith Park. Experts say that P-22 will probably never leave Griffith Park’s 8 square miles, which is only half a victory. He’ll be safe because he’s the only male mountain lion living there, but he’ll never mate. His line will end with him.

Niall isn’t nearly as pessimistic about his own future, but he does have a few things in common with P-22. In a city surrounded by people, sometimes he feels like he’s living on an island. Anyone who wants to get to him will have to cross treacherous territory.

“Okay, I’m back,” Kayla says in Niall’s ear. “Now tell me what the fuck you were thinking, please.”

“I still don’t know what you’re talking about,” Niall says.

“Your note! You were a total asshole. At lunch today Carver was like, who is this guy and what the heck is his problem? And she’s totally right. What the heck is your problem?”

Right now Niall’s problem is that Kayla doesn’t seem to be planning on letting him get a word in. “Well—”

“Stop talking. I’ll tell you what’s wrong with you. You don’t know how to be nice to people because you are afraid of making authentic connections because then someone might get close enough to see that you’re as perfect as you pretend to be.”

“Hey—”

“It’s not your turn, idiot. You need to fix this now, because you haven’t completely ruined your chances, but you’re close, I can tell you that. I tried to tell Carver that you’re just bad at first impressions, but she wasn’t hearing it. Like, she literally zoned out and stopped listening to me.”

Niall feels like doing that right now. He also feels like jumping headfirst into the Wilsons’ pool, or throwing his phone in so the water can drown out Kayla’s voice. Or maybe he should leave his phone here and walk off into the forest and make a new home with P-22. The mountain lion won’t judge him. It might attack him, but it certainly won’t do so while calling him an idiot.

No, Niall can do that himself. He definitely feels stupid right now. He thought he was being witty and maybe even flirty, but clearly none of that came across. Instead he made himself look like an asshole, and he’s probably completely ruined his chances with Carver, who—he can admit this to himself, even if he hasn’t said it out loud—might be the one girl who could save him from a P-22 fate.

“So figure out a plan, Niall, because Carver is probably sitting at your desk right now writing a note to you about how much of a dickhead you’re being, and your deserve it!” Final words voiced, Kayla hangs up.

Niall sighs, allows himself a moment of self-pity, and opens the notes app on his phone to make a list.

Before end of work day:

- Call plumber

- Figure out how to explain further delay to Wilsons

- Call Wilsons, explain, apologize

- File report with office

By tomorrow AM:

- Fix Carver problem

- Refill gas tank

- Sleep?

It’s shaping up to be a busy afternoon.

SEVEN.

Carver wakes up the next morning feeling perfectly normal, and then she remembers what she decided. Before she left the office, she pulled her note out from underneath Niall’s keyboard, signed her name to it with a flourish, and taped it to his monitor.

She sits up in bed, overcome with a wave of nausea. Assuming Niall went to the office last night, which he most likely did because he seems like the kind of person who follows his routines religiously, without exception, there is going to be a note waiting for her, and it’s probably not going to be a nice one.

But when she gets to Niall’s desk, there’s nothing there. Her note is gone, but there isn’t a new one.

Fuck. There are so many things this could mean. Maybe he read her note and was so annoyed by it that he decided she wasn’t worth responding to. Maybe he laughed and crumbled it up into a ball and tossed it over his shoulder as he walked through the parking lot to his car. Or maybe a janitor threw it away and he never even saw it.

Carver pushes it out of her mind, though, because she has work to do. There are numbers to be crunched and data to be sorted and there is plenty to distract her anxious mind.   

But she can’t get the note out of her head. How did he react to her note? Why didn’t he respond? Is she a terrible person for leaving it in the first place?

Just before 11 AM, Kayla pops her head over the edge of the cubicle, a mug of coffee in her hands. “Morning,” she says. “Can you do me a favor?”

Carver minimizes my spreadsheet and grins. “Of course. I need a break anyway.” That isn’t an overstatement. With all the circles her brain has been going in, Carver wonders how she managed to get anything done this morning.

“Great.” Kayla holds out a manila envelope. “Can you take an early lunch and drop this off for Horan at the Wilson house?”

Drop this off for Horan. Oh, shit.

“Of course,” Carver says, but meanwhile her brain is having a heart attack. She hates spur of the moment plans, she hates going to places she’s never been before, and mostly she hates that she might be about to confront Niall in a place she’s never been before, where she can’t control anything.

She can’t say any of that out loud, though, so she takes the envelope from Kayla and puts the address Kayla gives her into Google maps on her phone. She blasts the “Mamma Mia” soundtrack on the drive, but it doesn’t help calm her nerves.

Even though the house isn’t geographically that far away, it takes nearly half an hour to get there, which must be why Kayla told Carver she wouldn’t expect her back before two.  Los Angeles traffic is no exaggeration.

She parks her car at the end of a long driveway and pushes her sunglasses onto her head. She remembered them this morning, but she doesn’t think they’re going to save her from whatever is going to happen at the top of the drive.

The house is the first thing that shocks her. It’s beautiful, and that’s not a term she typically uses to describe architecture. She may work for West & Co., but she’s a math geek. She’s a human computer. She doesn’t have a natural taste for beautiful construction, but this she recognizes. It’s two stories and massive but not obviously so, because the facade has varying heights and it doesn’t look like an imposing box. She can tell, though, that the people who live here are loaded. There are mediterranean stones and slightly tinted window panes and she can just bet that the back of the house is entirely glass to give the residents the best possible view of the hills behind.  

She walks through a beautifully manicured front yard to find that the front door is open, so she goes inside without knocking. The front hall is two stories high, and a living room with mid-century modern furniture is on the right. It looks like it belongs in an Architectural Digest celebrity home tour on youtube. There is no clutter anywhere, like maybe no one lives in this house and it’s actually just used for filming and photoshoots.

Carver follows the sound of hammers through to the kitchen at the back of the house. There are floor to ceiling windows, just like she expected, and even though the kitchen is entirely deconstructed—it looks like custom cabinets are currently being installed—she can already tell it’s going to be beautiful.

“Hey, Horan!”

Shit. Carver follows the direction of the shout and steps further into the kitchen, and that’s when she sees him.

He’s outside, so they’re separated by a massive kitchen and a sliding glass door, but it’s definitely him.

It’s Mistletoe Boy.

It can’t be, though, right? He can’t be Niall. Niall can’t be him. They can’t be the same person.

But then somebody shouts, “Horan!” again and Mistletoe Boy turns and, oh shit, he’s coming this way, and Carver definitely cannot deal with this right now. She backtracks out of the house and grabs a construction worker who’s just coming in.

“Can you give this to Horan?” she asks, holding out the envelope. The guy wrinkles his brow, but he shrugs and takes the envelope. “Thanks,” Carver says, and then she practically runs to her car.

Carver starts the engine as she’s buckling her seatbelt (even though her mother taught her never to do that), and she drives out of the neighborhood with her heart attempting to beat its way out of her chest. She pulls into the first parking lot she sees, shuts off her car, and leans her head on the dashboard.

Of all the things to happen today, it had to be this. She had to find out that Mistletoe Boy and desk asshole Niall Horan are the same person, and that had to happen at his construction sight and it had to be a total surprise, and now she’s sitting in her car in a parking lot outside of a Whole Foods and this is fucking Beverly Hills or something (Carver really doesn’t know where the fuck she is right now) and she’s probably going to get arrested for having a panic attack in her car.

Deep breaths, Carver, her voice of reason tells her, and she leans her head back and tries to listen. Her dashboard post-it tells her that “EVERYTHING WILL BE FINE” but that doesn’t seem realistic right now.

Nonetheless, Carver says it out loud.

“Everything will be fine,” she tells the steering wheel.

“Everything will be fine,” she tells her bitten-down fingernails.

“Everything will be fine,” she tells her purse, haphazardly thrown on the floor on the passenger’s side as she rushed away from the Wilson house.

“Everything will be fine,” she tells herself.

Then someone knocks on her window, causing her to shriek.

Everything is not going to be fine.

EIGHT.

Carver looks up, eyes wide, and Niall regrets this immediately. When he saw Carver rushing to her car looking as though she’d seen a ghost, he knew instantly that she saw him, realized who he was, and panicked. His brain told him that if he let her go now, he might never see her again.

So he followed her out. He jumped in his truck and trailed her car out of the Wilsons’ fancy neighborhood and into the parking lot of a Whole Foods. Whole Foods is a store that he generally tries to avoid because the prices are ridiculous and all of the Prius drivers in the parking lot give him dirty looks when he parks his truck, but none of that matters right now.

What does matter is Carver, and she looks like she would rather cry than talk to him.

Too bad, because for the first time in a long time, Niall doesn’t want to walk away from this problem.

He meets Carver’s eyes and waves. She grimaces, so he tries to smile. Carver closes her eyes, takes a visible deep breath, and reaches for the door handle.

“Shit.” Niall takes a step back, out of her way, and tries not to panic. He didn’t really think this part through. What the hell is he going to say to this girl? This girl of his dreams? The girl who is now standing in front of him, leaning against her closed car door, looking up at him like he’s already broken her heart.

Damn, what a mess. Niall hates messes.

“Hi,” he says.

“Hi,” Carver says. She looks exactly as he remembered her: green eyes, blond wavy hair, oversize glasses. Just as cute as she was before Christmas.

He said hi, then she said hi, so it’s his turn again. Unfortunately, his mind is blank.

This was much easier in December, when they were standing in the dark under the mistletoe and Niall didn’t yet know that the kiss they were about to share would haunt him for several weeks following.

“Sorry about the note I left you,” Carver says, saving his ass. “I shouldn’t have written any of that.”

Niall shakes his head. “No, I deserved it. I’m a terrible note writer.”

Carver bites her lip; she’s either holding back a smile or a frown. “You could definitely use some practice.” It’s definitely a smile.

Niall smiles back. “Will you let me try again tomorrow?”

Carver nods.

NINE.

Dear Carver,

This is what I should’ve written in the first note: I knew that you were using my desk, and by that I mean that I remember you from the Christmas party. I’m glad that you’re using my desk, but what I’d like better is if you’d go out on a date with me. I think you’re kind and funny and sweet, and I want to learn more about you.

Best,

Niall

TEN.

Dear Niall,

Yes.

- Carver

[red-lytes]

08.13.19

The Chronicles of Anorexia S1:E1

Today was a very rude awakening for me. I mean, it started out alright - I got to work, ate a decent breakfast, and made a reasonable decision when it came time for lunch. I happened to be meeting Paul for lunch today, during my break. (Paul is a lonely old rich man I’ve known for a few years, who considers me his only friend and often tries to buy me out from my current relationship. He’s very egocentric and misogynistic, has a very off-color perspective on how the world works - and is, frankly, an asshole. But I feel for him. Sure, he’s got all this money, but he’s never really had anyone to just sit with and talk to. So I have lunch or coffee with him every once in a while to keep him company.)

Anyway, onto the impending trainwreck that my day was about to become. We met at a Mexican restaurant around the corner from my office. We were finishing up our meals while he was telling me for the umpteenth time about how smart and wealthy he is, the million-dollar deals he's been making, how he'd spoil me if I were with him, blah blah blah. I ignored his flirts as usual because I'd 100% rather be struggling financially with Michael (my darling s/o, who I love very much) than living in luxury with this old creep. I was starting to zone out a bit when he brought up something I'd said a few weeks prior about feeling depressed. He asked me if I was okay, and said that he'd noticed how I've been gaining weight.

He’d noticed how I’ve been gaining weight. I’ve been gaining weight. Gaining weight.

I heard nothing but ringing in my ears after that, as if a bomb had been dropped right in front of me. Holy fucking fuck. Every bite of food, every single calorie I'd consumed over the last year had just aggressively and very loudly come back to haunt me. The salad I just ate. The milkshake I had last week. A sandwich I had four months ago, the god damn pizza I had last September! I wanted to throw up right then and there. Everything, all at once. It took everything I had to keep my composure and hold the tears back for the remainder of lunch.

We wrapped up our meals (I refused to take my leftovers home), said our goodbyes, and I headed back to the office. I got back to my desk and spent the rest of the workday with those shitty words resonating in my head. I couldn't get anything done. Five and a half unproductive hours later, it came time to go home, and I was completely locked up in my head by the time I walked out the door. I don't even remember the drive home. Michael was there waiting for me when I got home, I sort of halfway acknowledged him and went upstairs to change into something loose-fitting, avoiding the mirror at all costs. When I came back downstairs, I was asked what I wanted for dinner. I said I had already eaten. I can still feel today’s lunch sitting in my stomach, and it’s making me feel sick.

I know I’m not small anymore, and I haven’t been for quite a while. But I’ve been hoping to god that maybe - just maybe - the piece of lard I’ve been seeing in the mirror is just a warped image perceived through the slimy film of dysmorphia. But it’s not. It’s real. And it’s noticeable. 

It’s been two years now since I hit my lowest weight. I’m now nearly back at my starting weight. Although my eating disorder never truly ceased to exist, I’ve been so preoccupied with my job, college education, and relationship that my obsession with weight loss was put on the back burner of my mind for a very long time. Despite not feeling the absolute and wholistic need to restrict my intake to the bare minimum as I had for so many years, I have not by any means felt comfortable with my weight. I still feel considerable guilt when I eat. Now, more so than ever. 

Thus begins another descent into a vain existence for nothing but the declining numbers on a bathroom scale. 

Tune in next time on - The Chronicles of Anorexia!

[killitquick]

In the Bleak Midwinter. P.t 2

Part One. 

Michael awoke seconds after hitting the ground. For a moment he was confused but soon the memories started coming in like the tide.  He watched as Tommy sat in the corner smoking and drinking a whisky. He wasn’t sure if he should move off the ground or just stay still and play dead. He had done a really shitty thing to a woman who he knew was beloved by the Shelby clan. He knew that he was playing with fire when he started to fool around with Charlotte. He wondered why he had been so easily swayed. Why he had been so easily tempted when you gave him everything.  He had tried to think of why he had done what he had done so that he could go to you and tell you why he had hurt you the way he did. He heard your wail break through the veil of silence and he had sworn that you were dying and he supposed you were. He had just crushed your heart underneath his boot with out even giving it a second thought.  He goes to stand up and the blood rushing down to his feet causes him to sway for a moment. He moves towards the door wanting to confront you, wanting to comfort you but Tommy’s voice stops him. 

“ Where do you think you’re going” Tommy asks 

“ To her” Michael explains simply as if it’s plain as day 

“ Sit down, Michael” Tommy instructs.  

Michael doesn’t move. His fingers twitch wanting to reach for the door knob but the look on Tommy’s face prevents him from moving anywhere. It’s a cool hard look and he had only ever seen it when Tommy was doing business. He had never been on this end of the look and he wished to never be on this end of the look ever again.  Michael sits down and fold his hands on top of the table.  He licks his lips and hisses in pain. 

“ Why’d you do it” Tommy asks voice cold and distant 

“ I don’t know.” he shrugs reaching for one of his own cigarettes 

 Michael tries to think of a reason, like you weren’t giving it up or  that you were never home that you deserved it. Michael had tried to drive you away when had found out the Charlotte was pregnant. He tried being so cold to you that you would just get fed up and leave. You didn’t though you stayed and tried your hardest to make things work and every time he came home to dinner on the table and a drink made he felt the guilt bite into his heart. Every time you showed up to the office with a smile and a packed lunch his stomach lurched.  He was cruel to you and he watched as your eyes would water and you lip would wobble. He would listen to you cry to yourself in the bathroom, heard you praying and he heard you talking with his mum.  He knew what he had done was wrong but he liked the thrill of having two women, of having a whore and a wife, but things became messy and complicated. He knew the right thing was to marry Charlotte but she didn’t want that, she didn’t want to keep a bastard baby in her. Didn’t want any one to know what they had been doing.  He realized quickly that he was just a dirty thrill and that he had meant nothing to her. He was nothing more than a play toy for the night and while they were playing you were at home loving him. Michael didn’t know where to go but to his cousins and now here he was sitting across from Tommy. 

 Michael  begged for something, anything to come to mind but nothing did. The only thought that was rambling around in his mind was that he could.  He did it because he could. For the first time in a long time Michael was in control. He had shed the coat of Henry and put on the peaky cap of Michael.  Although you were the love of his life, he had done the unthinkable because he bloody well could and no one would say anything to him. If they did he had his boys at his back ready to throw down. He had forgotten that you had come before him though; that his cousins had watched you grow up, had protected you.  He forgot that although Polly favored him; the siblings, his cousins loved you deeper, and for longer then they did him.

Tommy watches as his cousin sits with his thoughts. A quiet anger fills him to the brim. He had made a promise to himself that he would never put you in harms way.  That you would never be used in his games , in his business. He knew that you had lived enough tragedies in your short life to live through any more so when he heard your scream pierce through the noise in the bar it had taken all of his strength to not jump up and punch Michael again.  He had set you two up because he knew Michael had been raised by a nice family, in a nice house, in a nice town. Michael was a sweet boy he thought to himself watching as he interacted with everyone, especially with you. He didn’t think that this city would change him for the worse, maybe toughen him up , give him some street smarts. Michael was slipping down a dark hole and he supposes that Michael was just always dark but was confined to a nice town and therefore wore the clothes of a nice boy. A wolf wearing sheep’s clothing. 

“ You know, of course you know.” Tommy speaks

“ It’s not a good reason” Michael admits, Tommy shrugs before taking another puff. 

“  There was never going to be one. So out with it.” smoke falls out of Tommy’s mouth and nose. 

“I did it because, I could” 

John had run out after checking to see if Michael was still breathing. No matter how much he wanted to slit his throat he knew that if anything was seriously wrong with the wrath of Polly would be upon their heads and none of them wanted that. So he checked on the boy and then left. He couldn’t look at him for much longer bile was creeping up his stomach and he wasn’t sure if he could keep it down. The cold December air hits his warm body and he welcomes it.  It helped calmed him down. The ballistic feeling in his chest was soothed away by his deep breaths of the winter air.  

When Michael came into the private room that night he was happy to see him, but quickly he noticed the look on his face and he became worried. Had something happened to him, or to you? He wasn’t sure but he was soon going to find out and when he did he couldn’t help the clenching of his fists. There he was standing in all of his new found peaky glory asking for who to go to about an unwanted pregnancy. The three brothers looked at each other and wondered when you had stopped wanting babies. They had heard you and Ada talk about it a million times. In fact you had made Finn dress up as your baby more than once so why they sudden change of heart. 

“ ( Y/N), doesn’t want the baby” Tommy asked perplexed sharing a look with his brothers 

“ Nah, it’s not for her” Michael says shrugging his shoulders 

“ Then who’s it for?” Tommy questions more confused than when they started 

“ Charlotte, we’ve been foooln around. Doesn’t want the baby.” Michael is cut off by Arthur standing up to leave.

The scream that you let rip is a sound he never thought he would have to hear again. It reminds him of mothers losing their children, it reminds him of men from the war in the hospital. It knocks the breath out his lungs hearing something that mournful come out of your mouth.  He stands in shock and watches as you dash past him throwing up in snow bank.  Arthur right behind you slaps a hand against Johns shoulders waking him up out of his daze.  Your body convulses and seizes. John grips your hair behind your head having plenty of practice with sick women. He did have six kids.  He can hear your teeth chattering, your lips now an unnatural colour.  

“ Get her outta the snow. She’s freezin” John says to Arthur 

You feel your body being hoisted up and out of the snow. All the whisky was really catching up with you know. The spins had in fact taken over and you just wanted to go home and crawl in bed. You felt your thoughts getting lost in the lake of alcohol you had consumed but one thing was very clear you couldn’t go back home to Polly. She would know, she always knew, and since you had confided in her about Michael acting weird she would piece it together. She had just gotten Michael back and you didn’t want to jeopardize  the way she looked at him. You wanted the love in her heart to remain untainted by the heartbreak in yours. You feel your feet move forward, John and Arthur keeping you upright. 

“ Polly can’t know” you feel yourself say 

The boys knew exactly what that meant. They couldn’t take you home to Polly in this manner without her asking questions as to where Michael was. They couldn’t lie to her and in your tear stained state she would put it all together. They stopped moving and looked at each other where would they take you. John’s had too many children and Arthur and Linda’s was just barely big enough, Ada was in London and I guess they could just drive through the night but Tommy’s was closer technically which was decided by a shrug of the shoulders and the a curt nod of the head.  So off they dragged you towards the car. The men lay you in the back of the car and you don’t fight them. 

John sweeps the hair out of your eyes and you reach for his hand. 

“ I-Is there something wrong with m-me” you stammer out 

“ No-” 

“ Then w-why am I always b-being broken” you sob 

The last sentence you spoke before the liquor took you over completely left the men silent in their rage.  You had never hurt a fly in your life. In fact one time John had killed one and you had burst into tears made everyone go to a funeral you and Ada had planned for a fucking house fly.  Now you were drunk in the back seat with your heart shattered and there wasn’t a damn thing any one could do about it. 

You awoke to the silence and you let it take you, the tears had all but gone  and all that was left was the mind numbing pain of having your hear broken. This time you didn’t distract yourself from the horror. You had always pushed the pain away, always convinced yourself that one day you would know true pain and only then would you feel it. Only then would you let yourself die.  It wasn’t till the words had tumbled out of his mouth that you let yourself feel  the knife Michael had stabbed into your back. It wasn’t till this moment that you could just lay there and let the world swallow you up and you had to say it. Had to get it off your chest. 

“ Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, here lay my heart and soul.  In the bleak midwinter” 

A/N Okay so, lol did I say two parts I meant three.  I feel like leaving it with just her anger and not her sadness how everyone else was feeling wasn’t right. I also know that I may have caused you distress so for that I am sorry.  A good friend told me I wasn’t allowed to write anymore because of how fucked up i made it anywas i hope you enjoyed it please let me know and don’t forget requests are open. 

Tags : @alhenablack

[psyched2b]

All My Heroes - Chapter Four (Steve Rogers x OFC)

Warnings: I swear...sometimes 

Feedback is appreciated and welcomed!

*Moodboard created by the amazing @shreddedparchment

“What the fuck was that!?” Steve yelled in piqued surprise and took a big step away from the petite woman, needing distance. He could feel his heart hammering in his chest, his breathing coming out ragged, his hand still clutched in his chest.

Cecelia winced at his outburst and visibly recoiled in on herself. Her green eyes watered and she gave him an apologetic look. “I’m so so sorry,” she tried, wrapping her arms around herself. She felt ill at having startled the Captain so harshly. “I should have warned you. I just…I don’t.” She squeezed her eyes shut to keep the tears in. “I’m sorry.”

With that final apology, she took off up the tree, leaving Steve at the bottom to look up at her, shocked at how quickly she climbed.

Regret flooded through him then and he realized that he overreacted.

He stepped back towards the tree and reached his hand out, hesitating before placing it on the trunk. There was no overwhelming feedback this time and he let out a small sigh of relief. He then leaned his torso against the body of the tree and looked up through the branches to locate the elusive Cecelia Thompson.

“Cecelia?” he called, blue eyes searching every branch. His eyes locked onto her form at the top of the tree.

She was laying, her back resting on the branch, legs dangling down on either side. Even from his spot, he could see that she wasn’t afraid of falling. He listened to see if she was crying and was relieved when she wasn’t.

“It’s Cece,” she shouted back down, face facing the sky.

Steve’s heart skipped a beat at her voice, secretly relieved that she wasn’t going to ignore him. “Please come down!” he hollered up to her. “I’m sorry I reacted so negatively. I was just surprised!”

He could hear a deep sigh escape from her lips. She then hooked her legs around the branch and leaned over so she was hanging upside down, grabbing the next branch below and lowered her body down. Steve was amazed at the amount of strength it took to execute such controlled movements. Cece continued to climb her way down the tree until she was on the lowest branch, eye level with Steve.

Steve offered her a hand to help her down, but she shook her head at him, alternatively, laid down on her stomach on the branch. “I’m going to just hang out here if that’s okay.” He could see the worry behind her eyes at his potential rejection and that guilt pressed at his heart. He realized that she probably didn’t open up to people that often, let alone those she just met and he fucking blew it.

He tucked his hands into his pockets and rocked back on his heels. “I really mucked that up, didn’t I?”

He almost expected her to giggle at his question, but instead, she shook her head in negation, eyes closing once again. The guilt clutched at him over again and Steve longed to see her emerald eyes….to convey his own sincerity, of course.

“It’s my fault,” Cece’s voice broke through, bringing Steve back to the moment. “I should have warned you about that…or maybe just not have done it at all.” She pressed the palms of her hands into her eyes and groaned. “Gods I’m so stupid! I just need to use my words. Words!” she reprimanded herself, shaking her head.

Steve was quick to reach out, grasping her hands in his. Her eyes popped open and she looked at him not in surprise, but with interest.    

Realizing what he was doing, he dropped her hands, flushing bright red. He gave her a sheepish smile, scratching the back of his head nervously. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have grabbed you without your permission.” He stuffed his hands back into his pockets and made eye contact with her. “But…let’s come to a compromise. Next time you want to show me something like that,” he nods towards the trunk of the tree, “you give me a heads up so I can prepare myself for a sensory overload.” He offered her a smile, waiting to see if he would get one in return.

His heart skipped again when a small smile graced her rosy lips. He really needed to get checked out.

“Fair enough,” she agreed, biting her bottom lip.

Silence hung between the two of them for a moment. They were waiting to see who would break first.

Steve’s curiosity won out. “Two questions,” he started, giving off an apprehensive laugh. “You said ‘gods’ earlier. Is there a reason for that?”

This time, she let out a real laugh. “Would you believe me if I say that I’m friends with Loki? We met some time ago and he likes to curse his ancestors a lot and it may have rubbed off on me.”

Steve blinked, unsure how to respond to that. “You…you’re friends with the guy who tried to take over the world?” he asked incredulously.

Cece let out a small sigh, all signs of happiness vanishing. “I’ll be honest, Steve, I don’t know what happened there. He may be more inclined to mischief, but this is different. That’s not the Loki I know.”

A shiver goes down Steve’s spine when he heard her say his name, but he tried to ignore it. Instead, he asked, “You speak as if you’ve known him a long time. But you can’t be more than what, twenty-five?” He looks her form up and down, and nods, agreeing with his own assessment. He then blushed, realizing that he essentially just checked her out. Internally, he was panicking, praying that she did notice.

She lets out a cute snort. “Appearances can be deceptive, Steven. You of all people should know that. I’m actually 62. ALMOST 63. You know, because that ‘almost’ matters.” She glanced over toward Steve and laughed at the surprised expression on his face. “What, you think you’re the only one who can stay young forever?” she teased, sticking her tongue out at him. “How rude!”

Steve shook his head to clear his racing thoughts and leaned towards her in interest. “You mean to tell me that you don’t age? Or you just age very, VERY slowly?”

She nodded, “I haven’t aged since..well, if I had to guess, 1979?” She shrugged indifferently. “No one of my family has aged past 24, 25.”

His jaw dropped but was quick to close it. “So wait, do they have gifts?”

Cece sat up abruptly, her eyes scanning the area around them. After a moment, she turned her attention back to Steve. “You said you had two questions,” she reminded him, changing the subject.

Steve caught on to what she was doing but allowed it. “Oh yeah, my other question was more about the specifics of your abilities. Bucky explained it a little to me, but what you showed me was more than I had imagined. And it wasn’t even a person. Can you do that will any living thing? How does that play into your ability to manipulate connections? And what about removing Hydra’s control over Bucky?”

The woman rolled her eyes at him and held up a hand, stopping his list of questions. “That’s a lot of curiosity you have there, uh?” she teased, swinging her legs over to one side, placing her hands on either side of her and leaned forward, getting close to Steve’s face. “Are you always so…intuitive?” she whispered, eyes flickering to his lips before meeting his blue eyes again.

Steve gulped, the air around him feeling thicker. “I-uh….what?”

Cece gave him a satisfied smirk and leaned back, clucking her tongue at him. “You’re too cute,” she cooed. “But, to answer your questions simply. I can see, if I so choose, all of the connections inside any organic being. Beyond that, with just a glance, I know exactly what the purpose of that connection is and how it is supposed to function. With my studies to become a doctor, I know what belongs and what doesn’t, such as tumors. But when I touch,” she caressed her hand over the coarse bark, “I catch glimpses of memories. It comes to me all at once and it took…awhile to be able to get a good handle of it. As you know, it can be overwhelming.” She gave him a sheepish smile. “Sorry about that again. I’m used to it and didn’t think.”

Steve was listening intently. He waved her apology off and nodded for her to continue. “How was I able to see that?”

She shrugged. “I can’t explain how or why. All I know is that touch can be a powerful thing.” She gave him a wink and he blushed again. Her grin widened at his embarrassment and she continued animatedly. “As for Bucky, there are some cases where I can see…well, I would describe it as black goo seeping in every crevice in a person's mind. I could spot it on him a mile away. It wasn’t natural and I could feel how toxic and overall consuming it was. So, I kidnapped him.” She gave a fond smile at the memory. “That’s easily one of my greatest accomplishments. How many people do you know can take out The Winter Soldier?” She giggled. “Anywho, I took care of it and helped him out. But yeah, that’s…that’s a pretty basic overview of what I can do.”

“Wow,” was Steve’s brilliant response.

She giggled once again, “You’re too cute.” She hopped off the branch and landed silently on the balls of her feet. Glancing at her wristwatch, she realized that an hour had passed and knew Michael would burn the place down if she wasn’t home soon. “Time to head back to camp,” she told Steve, looking up at him. “Are you and Bucky spending the night? We can snag two more cots if we need too as long as you don’t mind camping out.”

Steve stared out at the land around them, unsure of what he should do. It wasn’t like he and Bucky had a set plan for where to go next. One night in a random village wouldn’t do any harm. Then in the morning, he could go over what to do to get into the compound with Cece and Michael. That, and he wasn’t sure if he wanted to part ways yet. His curiosity was winning out and he wanted to learn more about this beautiful woman before him.

Beautiful? Where did that come from?

“Steve?”

He blinked at the mention of his name, focusing back on the present.

“We’ll stay the night.”

She beamed brightly at him and his heart thumped heavily in his chest (yet again). “Excellent!”

Chapter Five

Everything Tags: @bettercallsabs @thinkwritexpress-official @mermaidxatxheart @geeksareunique @dont-stop-keep-walking

All My Heroes Tags: @deaniebean @asguardiansoftheavengers @thinkingsofamadwoman @spaceandstars @shreddedparchment @shynara51

[babeygirlbuckley]

you are here

summary: Sam is tired. Tired of running, of looking over his shoulder. He knows he should be used to it by now, but he also knows that this isn’t the kind of thing anyone should have to get used to; the suspicion, the upturned noses, the wary glances, the hesitance. He’s so tired.

my contribution to the @samwilsonbirthdaybang! accompanying art by @vantablacksteverogers forthcoming! available on ao3 here.

Sam doesn’t know how long he’s been on the Raft. He’d tried counting earlier, but his interrogation has left him disoriented, and that paired with the movement of the water around him isn’t helping his concentration. He thinks about how, if Rhodey or Nick were here, he would make a joke about how he’d much rather be imprisoned in the air -- “we weren’t meant to swim,” he can picture himself saying. “Flying comes much more naturally, right Rhodes?” Nick would snort and shake his head, and Rhodey would smile.

God, he hopes Rhodey’s okay.

He wishes Nick were here. He thinks it’s selfish to wish someone else were imprisoned with him, but he allows himself to imagine the comfort Nick’s presence would bring him: Nick would be practical about their chances but wouldn’t let that squash his hope; Nick wouldn’t speak to him outright but he wouldn’t sugarcoat the reality of Sam’s situation, would ground him with stares that said “I know. I know and I’m trying. I’ll get you out of here. I won’t let them kill you.”

At least, that’s what Sam imagines.

He hasn’t spoken to his mother in a week. A week? Has it really been that long?

What was the last thing he said to her? What had they talked about? Something inconsequential, probably, just to check in -- “Yeah, I’m all good here. Nah, he still can’t cook, but he’s trying. If I haven’t called you by Thursday it’s because he’s poisoned me.”

A week without calling her, and stories about them being criminals have probably dominated the news. She’s worn a hole in the living room carpet by now, pacing and twisting her phone cord around herself as she alternates between calling his siblings and calling him. The answering machine at his and Steve’s house must be full by now, so she’s leaving him voicemails on his cellphone. “Baby, I know you’re God-knows-where right now, but just know that I’m praying for you. I don’t know what’s going on, but God’ll take care of you, okay? You just hang on, and God will do the rest.”

Sam hasn’t thought about God in a long time. His mom doesn’t ask if he’s been to church anymore, but he still goes to the Easter service with everyone else; his nephew Marcus has been trying to match his dress shirt with Sam’s for the last couple years. His mother’s seemingly unshakeable faith had frustrated him when he was younger, especially after his father’s death, but now he can see the appeal.

He wishes his father was here.

When Steve comes to get them, the knot in Sam’s chest has loosened. Loosened, but not come undone; he doesn’t think he’ll ever breathe freely again. The temporary relief fades as they fly closer to their house in New York, and Sam finds himself working to quash down a flash of white-hot anger at Steve’s sympathetic glances. What possible sympathy could golden-boy Steve have for him? How could he even begin to understand what Sam has been through? Later Sam will be ashamed of himself for the split second of hating his partner, but right now it almost consumes him, and he has to look away from Steve’s earnest face.

The silence presses on his ears, and he can’t take it any more. “Have you seen Rhodey?” he grits out, working to keep his voice even. It won’t do anyone any good for him to lash out.

Steve starts and gives Sam another look out of the corner of his eye, but Sam keeps his eyes forward. “Not yet. I didn’t think they’d want to see me.”

Sam nods. “What about Nick, have you heard from him?” Where had he been through all of this?

Steve sighs. “Not yet, but he’s probably making his rounds.”

Sure enough, Nick is waiting for them in their living room when they get home; Sam had expected him after noticing Maria and Phil stationed across the street. Nick stands immediately upon seeing Sam’s face, not asking if he’s okay because he already knows the answer. “Jesus,” he whispers.

For some reason this squeezes some feeling back into Sam’s numb insides, and his hands start to shake. Steve grabs one, leading him to their bedroom without looking back at Nick. Sam can feel him watching them impassively, and he’s glad Steve’s closed the door before he breaks down.

Nick knocks on their door some time later, long after the sun has set. Sam is distantly aware of the fact that Steve has changed him into some pajamas and laid him on his side, and he smells food. Nothing is burnt, though, so he knows that Steve didn’t have any part in it. “Come in,” he croaks.

The scent of the food -- some kind of stew, he thinks -- wafts over to him as soon as Nick opens the door, and his stomach clenches in response. “Hope this helps,” Nick grunts as he sets a steaming mug down on Sam’s nightstand. “Cornbread’s just about done, you want jelly or butter?”

“Butter,” Steve answers for him, but Nick hasn’t moved from the doorway, waiting for Sam to either confirm or deny.

“Butter’s fine,” he says, even though he thinks he won’t eat any. It all smells great, and he’s starving, but he doesn’t think he can bring himself to take even one bite.

Nick comes back a few minutes later with a dessert plate laden with two pieces of cornbread, one spread with butter and the other with jelly. He sets it down next to the mug and steps back, crossing his arms. “You gotta eat something, Wilson,” he says softly.

Sam nods, pushing himself into a sitting position and taking the tray Steve offers him on autopilot. Nick hands him the mug and a spoon and then gives Steve a pointed look, but Steve isn’t good at subtlety, so gives an awkward jerk of his shoulders and stands up, gesturing vaguely to the living room and saying, “I gotta, um, call your mom. Be back in a bit.”

Once they’re alone, Nick slides the armchair they keep in the corner closer to the edge of the bed. He’s quiet for a moment, then tries to break the tension with levity. “I worked hard on that stew, so you better eat it. Rogers said it was from your mom’s cookbook.”

Sam nods, stirring the stew around in his mug absently. “No homemade biscuits, though.”

Nick smiles, just a quick one, and Sam holds onto the normalcy of the moment before it gets broken. “Rhodes will be okay. Stark had part of the Tower converted into a special lab for him to recover at, and he’s developed some kind of prosthetics to help him walk. Danvers is with him now.” He’d braced himself for worse, but Nick’s words still stab him in the gut. “And Sam,” he continues, resting his hand lightly on Sam’s wrist, “he wanted me to tell you that none of what happened was your fault.”

The lump Sam has been working to keep down is back in his throat. Guilt crushes him, threatens to consume him, but Nick’s grip is a tether that keeps him from drowning.

They sit in silence for an indeterminable amount of time; the stew has long since cooled in Sam’s lap, the gravy becoming tacky and the cornbread stiff. He can hear Steve pacing in the living room, and he suddenly aches to hear his mother’s voice. “My mom,” he whispers, tears burning in his eyes again. Nick understands, calling “yo, Rogers! Bring that phone in here,” out to Steve.

Steve’s face is blotchy and his eyes are red from crying, but his voice is steady when he hands the phone to Sam with a quick “Here he is” said into the receiver.

“Sam? Oh my god, baby, are you alright? I’ve been looking for you, they wouldn’t tell me anything--”

He lets her voice and the relief it brings wash over him. She keeps up a continuous stream of tearful praise to Steve for rescuing him and angry threats to Stark and Ross and anyone else who might have had a hand in imprisoning him. She tells him that Nick has kept her updated whenever he found out anything new, both about Sam and about Rhodey, and Sam has never been more grateful for Nick’s friendship in his life.

She wants to come see him, and at the stricken look on his face Nick takes the phone away from him, says “we’ll come to you, he just needs the chance to recover a bit more,” and “yes, Darlene, he’s had a bit of the stew, but I’ll get some more food in him,” and “give my best to Sarah and Gideon, tell them I’m keeping my eye on things.”

The silence after he’s hung up is ringing in Sam’s ears, and he feels compelled to break it. “What’d I tell you about flirting with my mama, man?”

Nick laughs, and Steve smiles, and Sam feels like maybe things will be okay.

They go to see Rhodey three days later. Natasha has come to bring Steve to one of her safehouses, pressing a soft kiss to Sam’s cheek and grasping Nick’s hand before she leads him away. Nick’s SUV is state-of-the-art, and Sam can feel the strength of the reinforced metal as he swings the passenger door shut and clicks his seatbelt on.

Nick’s hand is poised over his audio dial, and he looks to Sam. “Any requests?”

Sam smiles. “Play Earth, Wind, and Fire,” he commands. A voice coming from the rearview mirror confirms, and then a moment later their greatest hits album blasts from the speakers. “You gotta hook me up with one of these,” he tells Nick.

“As long as you don’t put any of that new shit on there,” he returns, and Sam settles into their familiar argument. He mostly agrees with Nick about “kids today” and their synthesized racket, but keeps up the pretense of disagreement only so he can watch Nick’s eyebrow twitch in annoyance.

“You know what Steve said to me the other day?” he remembers suddenly. (“The other day” had to have been weeks ago by now, but he doesn’t let himself think about that.) “The radio was on while we did the dishes, they had some Michael playing. He turns to me and he says, ‘this is a damn fine beat, Sam. We could really get down to this. Is this the king?’ What the hell am I supposed to say to that?!”

Nick’s sudden burst of laughter jerks the car, and the voice that played their music for them warns him to stay in his lane. When Nick hasn’t calmed down enough to steer without shaking, the car, in a somehow put-upon voice, asks permission to pilot itself. “I got it, I got it,” Nick grumbles, still snorting. “How do you put up with that?” he asks Sam.

“I don’t even know, man. And Sharon recommended Friends to him, so now I gotta sit through that nonsense.”

“Oh, Sam, you don’t know how good you have it,” Nick says with faux bitterness. “Natasha told him to watch Full House. She thinks I don’t know it’s her guilty pleasure, but this eye sees everything.”

“You wanna hear a guilty pleasure? Don’t tell anybody this, but I used to love 7th Heaven. The preacher and his kids, you remember that one?”

The car phone rings before Nick gets the chance to answer, and Rhodey’s face flashes in the upper left corner of the windshield. “Where are you guys? I thought you said you’d be here by one.”

Nick shakes his head. “You know damn well we were never getting there at one, Rhodes.”

Rhodey’s reply comes easily, and Sam can picture him trying not to smile. “You’re a damn spy, Nick, a government agent. How you still running on CP time when you have missions to run?”

“When they’re my missions they follow my schedule. Who do you think you are, mouthing off to your commanding officer?”

“Yeah, yeah, just tell me you guys will get here soon? I’m going stir-crazy.”

“We’ll be there in twenty minutes, colonel,” Sam assures him.

“Better had. Otherwise I’d have to fly out to meet you fools.”

Rhodey’s so casual about it, just mentioning flight like he hadn’t fallen out of the sky and broken the lower half of his body, like he wouldn’t still be walking if Sam hadn’t dodged that hit, like he hadn’t nearly died because of--

“Sam.” Nick’s firm voice draws him out of his head. He watches a few seconds tick by beneath Rhodey’s face on the windshield, then mutters a quick “sorry” to them.

“Not a problem,” Rhodey says lightly. “That’s a moratorium on you-know-what and the other thing, then.”

“No, we can talk about it,” Sam insists. “We should. I just got a little lost there, I’m fine.”

He can tell by their pauses that they don’t believe him, but they let it slide for now. “Okay. See you guys in bit.”

“See you, Rhodes.”

He and Nick finish the drive in silence.

Rhodey is as accommodating as he ever is when they arrive, which both comforts and bothers Sam. He doesn’t let Sam marinate on those thoughts -- that he should be the injured one, that he deserves punishment; he leads them to an alcove in a wheelchair with repulsor engines, so he’s hovering around Sam’s knees as they move and still floating when they sit. “Still get to be in the air,” he says, smiling.

The bright flash of his friend’s teeth crushes Sam, and he can’t hold himself back any longer. “I . . . I know this won’t do any good, and I know it doesn’t really mean anything, but I’m so sorry, Rhodey. I’d trade places with you if I could.”

Rhodey is quiet for a moment before he responds, keeping his voice even. “You think I want you hurt like this, Sam?”  He sighs, maneuvering his chair closer to Sam and reaching out to rest his hand on his shoulder. “I’m gonna tell you the same thing I told Tony, okay? I’ve flown 138 combat missions, alright? Any one of those could’ve been my last, but I still did it. I got in the plane, I put on the suit, and I flew. You accept the same risks with your wings, and you know as well as I do that this is a best-case scenario. I’m not dead, or comatose, or brain damaged. I still get to see my friends and kiss my wife and serve my country. I never blamed you for this, or Vision, or Tony; it just . . . happened. If you need to hear that I forgive you, then I’ll tell you, but just know that you don’t need to be forgiven for anything. Do I wish we could’ve been on the same side? Of course, but that’s not gonna change anything for me. We’re good, okay?”

Sam can’t yet speak through the tears steadily falling down his face, so he nods, reaching up to hold Rhodey’s hand. Nick brings him a bottle of water and a tissue box that had been sitting on an end table, and Sam lets his quiet affection reinforce Rhodey’s words; he is not a bad person, he was no more at fault for Rhodey’s injury than he was for Riley’s death, he deserves kindness. “Thank you,” he whispers.

They back off for a bit, giving him the chance to collect himself, before Rhodey addresses him again. “You have anything you wanna share? That shiner, maybe?”

Sam knew this was coming, and he knows he needs to talk about it, but he still balks. Remembering his interrogation brings him back to being a teenager in Harlem, watching white people lock their car doors when they saw him coming, watching them edge away from him on the sidewalk and clutch their purses. A bone-deep weariness suddenly overtakes him, and Sam is tired. Tired of running, of looking over his shoulder. He knows he should be used to it by now, but he also knows that this isn't the kind of thing anyone should have to get used to; the suspicion, the upturned noses, the wary glances, the hesitance. He's so tired.

“I thought I was gonna die,” he says finally. “I thought they would kill me. And it’s not like that’s anything new, you know? And I kept wondering what they would say about me afterward, what they’d tell my mom, if Steve would know the truth. Maybe they would make it look like I hung myself in my cell, or that I rammed my head into the bars.” Maybe they would force a blade into his hands and make him slash his own wrists, maybe they wouldn’t even bother with a cover-up and just let him disappear, fade from memory, become another hashtag that trends for a week before another tragedy takes its place. “I knew that was a possibility when I made the plan, and I told Steve to go with Bucky anyway. Guess I just wasn’t as prepared as I thought.”

“That’s not the kind of thing anyone’s ever really prepared for,” Nick says quietly. “Yeah, you walk around strapped because you know the FBI might send someone to assassinate you, and you stay indoors with the windows closed to avoid snipers, but when they’ve got you surrounded, when you think ‘this is it,’ you’re still scared shitless.”

Rhodey nods in agreement. “And you sign up to protect a country that has never protected you, and you think they’ll respect the uniform or the ranking if they won’t respect you, but even then you don’t matter to them.”

On an impulse, Sam sings out, “They don’t really care about us.” Rhodey and Nick are startled into laughing, and when Nick yells “George Bush doesn’t care about black people!” in an impression of Kanye West, he has to join in. Rhodey holds his hand out in front of him, miming a steering wheel, and raps “cruisin’ down the street in my 6-4,” which puts them in another round of hysterics.

It’s then that Sam remembers something his mother told him about resilience: “As long as you can laugh, baby, you’re still here.”

inspired by this poem and helped along by these posts.

[msgenevieve447]

Trick of the Light - Prison Break (1/1) - a vintage fic repost

In honour of the return of Prison Break, I’m posting the second fic I ever wrote in that fandom. Written in 2006 before the end of Season One, it was promptly ‘jossed’ by Season Two but it’s still a very sentimental favourite of mine.

Title:   Trick of the Light

Fandom:  Prison Break

Pairing:   Michael/Sara

Characters:  Sara Tancredi, Michael Scofield, Frank Tancredi, Henry Pope, Veronica Donovan, Brad Bellick, Katie Walsh, Lincoln Burrows,  LJ Burrows

Summary:   The first time she thinks she sees him, she blames the complimentary Mai Tais. Post-escape. Almost 50K words that contain vague spoilers for Season One, canon divergence for Season Two. (Original publication date, 6th May, 2006.)

Notes:  As always, for @scribblecat27​. 

The flame of anger, bright and brief, sharpens the barb of love. ~ Walter S. Landor ~*~

The first time she thinks she sees him, she blames the complimentary Mai Tais. She’s been at this godforsaken conference for two days. Two days of sitting through lectures on subjects that have no relevance to her current role. Two days of making pointless small talk with people who rarely venture out of their gilded private practices. Two days of avoiding the less than subtle advances of ego-inflated, BMW-driving idiots hoping for a bit of ‘away from home’ fun. This conference was not her idea. The last thing she wanted was to spend half a week with nothing to do but think about what had happened at Fox River three months ago. The Pope, however, had thought it would do her good to ‘get away’. Needless to say, the irony was not lost on her. After the first day, she learns that the quickest way to cripple an unwanted conversation was to answer truthfully when asked where she worked. Only the most ill-bred – or drunk – fellow conference attendees would dare voice the questions she can almost hear humming at the back of their throats. Pity wars with curiosity in their eyes, and it is always a relief when the subject is clumsily changed to the latest advances in MRI technology. To make matters worse, the conference schedule includes an inordinate amount of downtime, which means empty hours that need to be filled with meaningless tasks. She's not immune to the beauty of her surroundings, but she's hardly the most appreciative audience. She resents the handsome, seemingly carefree men and women she sees strolling along the streets and the beach, hates the easy atmosphere of sun and sand and sex. Despite this, she's still driven by a need to escape from the four walls of her hotel room. Her skin is pale, bordering on pasty, and she distracts herself from her resentment by taking great care to cover every inch of exposed skin with sunscreen whenever she ventures to the hotel pool. The sun bites into her skin, making her restless, and she keeps to the shade as much as possible. She doesn’t swim or socialize; both would require baring herself in some way, and she is ready for neither. She stakes out a claim on a recliner in a particularly secluded spot and tries to convince herself that she is interested in the romance novel she bought at the gift shop. Late in the afternoon of the second day, exasperated with the idiotic musings of her book’s heroine, she looks up to see Michael Scofield walking across the manicured lawn between the pool and the hotel restaurant. She sits up, her novel tumbling from suddenly nerveless fingers, her thin white shirt sticking coldly to the hot skin of her back as she scans the casually dressed human traffic ambling along the lawn. He’s not amongst them. Of course he’s not, she tells herself. How could he be? Why would he be? Picking up her book with a trembling hand that owes nothing to the alcohol she’s consumed, she slowly gets to her feet. Her face is hot, her scalp itching with what feels very much like mortification. She smiles politely at the desk clerk as she passes, but forgoes the ritual of asking if there'd been any messages left for her. It feels too much like tempting fate. That night, despite the combined effect of cool sheets and four Mai Tais, she can’t relax, her mind and her body whirring with a dozen impossible things. When she does finally drift into an uneasy sleep, she dreams of blurred lines and the feel of smooth skin beneath her hands. When she wakes, it’s to the taste of stale rum and the realization that she is as far from forgetting him as she can possibly be.

~*~

The second time she thinks she sees him, on the afternoon of the third day, she blames the sun. It’s a poor excuse for logic, considering that her sensible straw hat hasn’t once left her head, but what other explanation is there? What possible other explanation could there be for the fact that she has just seen Michael Scofield in a small local market in Barbados? She pushes her sunglasses to the top of her head and glares into the light of the afternoon sun and the milling crowd around her, her heart suddenly hammering. He’s not there, just as he wasn’t there the day before. But if he’s not there, she wonders, how can the fleeting glimpse of his profile be burned onto her retinas, much like a foolish child’s eyes after having looked too long at a solar eclipse? She sucks in a deep, shaky lungful of warm air, then realises belatedly that she is on the receiving end of an indignant glare from the stallholder whose brightly printed sarong she is now twisting in her hands. “You like that one?” he asks politely, his expression making it quite clear that a purchase would be highly desirable. “Yes, very much, I’ll take it,” she mutters as she fumbles for her purse and hands him too much money, her eyes still frantically searching the crowd around her. She makes her way quickly back to the hotel, smiling blandly at the people she recognizes from the conference, her heart pounding in time with the slap of her sandals on the hard ground. It’s not possible. There’s no way he could be here. No reason for him to be here. It’s been three months and there’s been no sign, no sightings, no word whatsoever. It’s not possible. It’s only when she reaches the sanctuary of the hotel foyer, her skin still jumping with the odd, lingering sense of being watched, that she finally allows herself to accept how badly she wants to be wrong.

~*~

Although her appetite is vastly diminished, she knows if she doesn't eat she'll regret it later. She orders room service, unwilling to make polite conversation either at the bar or over dinner for the third evening running. She sits alone on the small balcony and picks at the fruit platter, eats a respectable amount of the cold seafood salad and drinks two glasses of white wine. The sun dips beneath the horizon, staining the sky pink and indigo, and although she feels a grudging appreciation for the sight, it’s pretty much wasted on her. And that makes her quite angry, but she’s not sure exactly what she should do with her anger. She has a few ideas, though. She closes her eyes against the beautifully streaked sky, her fingers tightening on the stem of her wineglass. Damn you, Michael. There are times when her anger towards him makes her uncomfortable in her own skin. He lied to her, used her without a second thought, but he was never anything but unfailingly courteous towards her. From the first moment of their first meeting, he had been charming – all the better to manipulate her, of course, but charming nevertheless – and almost chivalrous in his dealings with her. He risked his life to save hers, and as chivalry goes, that’s pretty tough to beat. She shies away from the memory of a hand reaching out of the ceiling, his eyes pleading with her to trust him. It's hard to be resentful when she lets herself remembers that moment, and her resentment has become as familiar a companion as her anger. Sara places her empty wineglass on the tiled floor beside her with an audible clink, then leans back in the lounge chair, one hand over her eyes. Perhaps she should have gone downstairs to the restaurant for dinner. Perhaps making bland conversation about Botox and celebrity patients would have been preferable to being alone in this room with her thoughts. Sometimes, putting up with bland company is better than the alternative. Sometimes, like tonight, it feels as though she's been angry for so long, she's forgotten how not to be. Even her dreams have been angry. Before the escape, she'd dreamed of him. Dreams that woke her with a gasp, tangled in twisted sheets, her mouth dry, her heart pounding, her skin hot and tingling. Dreams that left her feeling as though she had to hide her eyes from him the next day, as though he’d only have to look at her and he’d see what she had seen, that he’d know. In the first two weeks after the escape, a dark fury had invaded her dreams. She'd started to dream of screaming at him to tell her why, why?, slamming her fists into his chest, pushing him away so hard that he would stumble. But no matter how much she shouted and shoved, he would never say a word. She would wake with a sob rather than a gasp of imagined pleasure, her face wet with tears. Later - three weeks? Four? - her dreams changed, anger morphing into a sharp, twisted hunger, her guilt and regret and lust mingling and becoming something much more unsettling than anger alone. She began to dream of Michael’s mouth silencing her enraged accusations, her pounding fists uncurling to pull him hard against her, her helpless sobs burning silently in her throat at the feel of him deep inside her. In the real world, Michael Scofield has kissed her only once. It was gentle, desperate, and a lie. It was a lie, but she can't forget the taste of his mouth and the feel of his skin beneath her palms. She remembers the way he’d looked at her when she’d pulled away, as though he’d just discovered the answer to a question he hadn’t realised he’d asked. In the weeks after the escape, she had spent more time answering questions than she had spent doing her job. That alone had been enough to make her prickly, tempting her to be uncooperative, but she’d known better than to give the authorities - the Pope, the police, the FBI, those damned dark-suited men with shadowy eyes who actually smirked at her when she was foolish enough to admit that her relationship with Michael had been a ‘cordial’ one – any more reason to put a big black mark next to her name. And now here she was, three months later, no closer to sorting out her life, seeing Michael on every street corner. If it were happening to someone else, she’d suggest they give Oprah a call. The phone in her room rings just as she’s trying to find room for the remains of her dinner in the bar fridge. It startles her enough to make her stub her toe on the corner of the fridge door as she hastily swings it shut. Swearing under her breath, she walks gingerly across the room, unable to suppress a flicker of concern as to who might be calling her here. Perhaps it was the locum standing in for her at Fox River – he wasn’t the brightest person she’d ever met and he hadn’t been her first or even second choice for a replacement, but the decision hadn’t been hers to make – or perhaps it was Katie. It would hardly be her father, she thinks dryly, given the tone of their last meeting. She drops onto the bed as she picks up the receiver, absentmindedly smoothing a pillow with her other hand. “Hello?” There is no answer. Sara frowns. “Hello?” There is a faint sound of a cut-off breath, then the dial tone. She stares at the phone, the receiver suddenly slippery in her hand as a cold wave of intuition twists her gut and she suddenly knows. She’d been wrong. It hadn’t been the sun or the alcohol. Michael is here.

It’s impossible, she tells herself, but she knows only too well that nothing is impossible when it comes to Michael Scofield. You’re imagining things, she tells herself next, but her gut tells her that she is not. She disconnects the line from her end, then immediately presses the quick-dial button for the reception desk. When the cheery voice of the desk clerk comes on the line, she clutches the receiver a little tighter. “This is Dr. Tancredi in room 447. Did you just put a call through to my room?” “Yes, ma’am.” “There was no one on the line when I picked up. I don’t suppose the caller gave you their name?” Sara presses the phone hard against her ear, holding her breath. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but the gentleman didn’t give his name. It sounded as though he was calling from a public phone box, if that helps?” The girl pauses. “Would you like me to screen your calls for the rest of your stay?” “No, it’s fine,” Sara hears herself say. “I doubt he’ll be calling back.” Ice slides through her blood as she slowly places the receiver back into its cradle, then rises to her feet, backing warily from the phone as though it was a coiled snake, waiting to strike. Michael is here. Here in Barbados. He is here. And he has been watching her. My God. A hundred different thoughts are pounding in her head, pressing against bone and sinew, dragging her straight back into the hell she’d finally started to put behind her. She stumbles against the edge of the bed as she takes another step backwards, then makes her way on unsteady legs to the balcony, suddenly filled with the urgent need for fresh air in her lungs. Dropping gracelessly into the lounge chair she’d vacated only a few minutes earlier, she covers her face with her hands, draws a long, shuddering breath, and remembers everything she’s spent the last three months trying so hard to forget.

~*~

Three Months Earlier

When she opens her eyes on what she thinks is her fourth day in hospital, the Pope is at her bedside. For a brief, foolish moment, she thinks it is her father.

“How are you feeling, Doctor?”

His deliberate use of her formal title is a subtle sting that registers even amidst her considerable physical discomfort. Her head is throbbing, her throat is scraped raw and her entire body feels as though its been pummelled with both fists and feet. She’s never been one to complain of self-inflicted wounds, though, so she merely offers the warden a simple, “I’ve been better.”

She glances around the room, trying to get her bearings. The door of her private room is shut, and the warden is not her only visitor. In addition to the uniformed police woman sitting in a chair just inside the closed door, there is also an officious looking, dark-suited man leaning against the wall near the window. She glances at him quickly before looking away, taking with her the vague impression of knowing his face. Perhaps he was the man who read her her rights the first time she regained consciousness in this room. Perhaps she only dreamed that one-sided conversation, seeing as she didn't seem to have been arrested as yet. It’s hard to say. Although her head is clearer than it has been in days, her thoughts still feel like so much cotton wool.

“I need you to talk to me, Doctor.” The warden’s voice is calm, but anger is etched in every line on his face and soldered into the rigid set of his shoulders. He’s aged five years since I last saw him, she thinks dully, and another layer of guilt settles like a shroud over her thoughts.

“Of course.” Her heart is racing, but she gestures calmly towards the water jug on the bedside table. “Do you mind if I-?” As she speaks, she pulls herself up into a sitting position. It’s hard not to feel more than a little disadvantaged by lying in bed wearing hospital issue nightwear, and she is going to need all the reinforced courage she can muster for this conversation.

“No, no.” Henry Pope pours her a glass of water and hands it to her with every appearance of concern, which is actually more than she would have received from her father had it actually been he at her bedside.

She takes several long gulps of water, then sets down the glass with a thankfully steady hand. “Is this a formal interrogation?” she asks softly.

Pope hesitates, and she sees anger warring with the remnants of their professional friendship. Finally, after exchanging a long glance with the man seated near the door, he shakes his head. “Not at this stage. I know you’ve been informed of the basic facts of the situation. I need you to tell me whatever you can to help us get to the bottom of this mess.”

“I’m so sorry.” She draws in a deep breath, gathering her scattered wits about her as best she can. “I made a terrible mistake.”

Disappointment floods his face, as though he’d been wanting her to say anything but what she just has. “I see.” Those two words are filled with more anger than she’s ever heard in his voice.

She wants to close her eyes in a vain attempt to soften the throbbing in her temples, but she meets the Pope’s accusing gaze unflinchingly. It’s been a long time since she’s had to lie to an employer, but it seems as though it’s an ability not easily lost. “If only I hadn’t left early to see my father, none of this would have happened.”

He stares at her in obvious confusion. “What do you mean?”

“My father was named as a potential running mate to the Vice President that afternoon.” She looks away, a very real sense of anger and loss burning in the pit of her belly. “Of course, he didn’t bother to tell me that himself.” She knows she sounds like a churlish teenager, but perhaps that’s a good thing. “I had to hear it from someone else.”

“I don’t quite see how that fits in with this situation.”

She tries to clear her raw throat, fails, then reaches for the glass of water once more. “It was foolish of me, I know,” she says quietly, cradling the glass in her cupped hands, “but my father and I have several unresolved issues, none of them pleasant. I took some personal time and went to see him.”

Realisation slowly replaces the confusion in the Pope’s eyes. “I take it your meeting didn’t go well?”

“Well, you know my father.” She shifted awkwardly on the bed, conscious of three pairs of eyes watching her. “I came back to work later in the afternoon to make sure that Katie had managed to tie up all the case files I’d left for her, but that was obviously a mistake.”

The warden’s eyes gaze locks with hers. “She said that you seemed distracted.”

“I was.” Her eyes blur with tears once more, and this time she can’t keep them at bay. Damn you, Michael. “I was upset and angry,” she says thickly, praying for atonement for the lie she is about to utter. “And obviously distracted enough not to realise I hadn’t locked down properly. I still can’t believe I made such a stupid mistake.” She hates herself, hates deceiving this man – a man who had always been so good to her - but she has spent several hours in this bed with nothing else to do but plan the right answers to the questions she knew were coming. She doesn’t much care what happens to her at this point, but she made the conscious decision to help Michael and she will see it through to the bitter end. As shattered as she feels, she will not give up his secrets, not even to this man.

He glances down at the IV in her arm. “I know that I don’t have to tell you that your actions on the evening of the escape,” he continues politely, and Sara bites back the urge to interject with the word ‘overdose’ because she doesn’t need any more help pretending it didn’t happen, “could be seen as an admission of guilt.”

“I know.” She swallows hard, then opens her eyes to find him watching her with something that looks very much like fatherly concern. “My timing could have been better.”

“Was this your first relapse? Since you came to us, I mean?”

Sara closes her suddenly burning eyes. “Yes.” Her eyes blur hotly, and she dashes the tears away with the back of her hand. “I have – had - been clean and sober for almost three years.”

Three years. And she had thrown it all away in one moment of blind, self-pitying madness.

“So why now?”

She can feel a hysterical burst of laugher starting to bubble up inside her. God, as if an overdose could ever be rationally explained. If she could even begin to understand why she had succumbed to the siren song of oblivion and shot a near-death sentence into her arm, she’d be able to save every addict in the world. “I’d like to blame my father, but I’m afraid that would be over-simplifying matters.” She looks at him. “Do you know if he’s been here?”

The warden looks faintly embarrassed. “He’s in Washington at the moment. I believe he is being kept apprised of your progress.”

Sara bites her bottom lip, uncaring that her teeth press painfully against dry, cracked skin. “Right.”

He studies her for a moment, then clears his throat. “I need to ask you about Scofield.”

Her dark thoughts shift from her father to Michael with unsettling ease. Her hands tighten around the glass, her fingertips pressing hard on the cool, slippery surface. “What about him?”

His eyes lock with hers. “Your nurse has suggested that your relationship with him may have gone beyond that of doctor/patient.”

A cold queasiness settles in the pit of her stomach even as her face grows hot. “I won’t deny that I liked him, because I did,” she answers quietly, forcing herself to hold the warden’s gaze. “But there was no inappropriate conduct on either side. I just thought he was a good man, despite his circumstances.” She shrugs, doing her best to project an air of disappointment. It isn’t difficult. “I guess I was wrong about him.”

He nods, an oddly pained expression tightening his craggy features. “You weren’t the only one,” he mutters darkly, then rises to his feet. “I must warn you, Sara,” he says almost gently, using her name at last, “that you’ll need to be prepared for a thorough investigation.”

Her stomach flips over once more, and she wonders vaguely if she can make it to the end of this conversation without throwing up. She lets out a shaky breath, then carefully reaches out to return her water glass to the table beside her bed. “Have they been recaptured?” It’s a perfectly valid question, given the line of defence she’s chosen to take, but she still regrets the words as soon as they leave her mouth.

Pope shakes his head. “Several of them are still at large,” he mutters, putting his hand to the back of his neck, tilting his head to one side as though trying to stretch stiff muscles, “including Burrows and his sonofabitch brother.” There's a harshness in his voice she’s never before heard. “Something that is of great concern to our new administration.”

The knowledge that Michael is still alive hits her like a punch to the stomach, slicing effortlessly through both anger and betrayal like a hot knife through butter. Praying that her reaction isn’t emblazoned all over her face, she nods calmly. “I see.” The full extent of his words hit her then, and she frowns. “New administration?”

“You don’t know?” He sighs, and once again she thinks how tired he looks. “Of course you wouldn’t know.” He glances again at the dark-suited presence near the window, then turns back to her. “I’ll have the nurse bring in a newspaper for you.”

“I’d appreciate that.”

“Try to get some rest.” He lifts his right hand, as though he’s tempted to pat her on the arm, then lets it drop to his side. “You’re going to need it.”

The dark-suited man follows the warden from the room, leaving her alone with her uniformed guard. A few minutes later, a nurse slips into the room. She puts a copy of the Tribune on her bedside table, refills the water jug and checks the intravenous drip, then leaves as silently as she entered. Grateful for the distraction, both from her thoughts of Michael and the sight of the gleaming IV needle embedded in her pale skin, Sara picks up the newspaper. It takes a moment for her eyes to adjust to the fine print – it seems like an eternity since she’s read anything at all – but the headlines are quite unmistakable. The newspaper begins to crackle as her hands begin to shake.

President Richard Mills is dead.

Caroline Reynolds, the sister of the man whose murder had put Lincoln Burrows on death row, has been sworn in as the forty-sixth President.

And Frank Tancredi, her father, is now the Vice President of the United States of America.

Sara drops the newspaper onto the floor beside the bed, uncaring of where it falls. She rolls over onto her side, careful not to disturb her IV, until she has her back to the silent police woman sitting by the door. Burying her face in the depths of her pillow, she concentrates on her breathing and the never-ending chorus of hospital life around her. She cannot let herself cry – if she does, she might never stop – but despair rises up the back of her throat, threatening to choke her. Despair for herself and her fucked up failure of a life; for the people she respected but still betrayed; for the father who now has everything he wanted and not a single part of it connected to her; for Lincoln, who now stands convicted of murdering a member of the President’s family, and for Michael, who has been reduced to nothing more than Burrows’ sonofabitch brother.

~*~

“You know, I didn’t think that you could actually top being found high as a kite and in possession of stolen morphine in the registrar’s office, but I guess I was wrong.”

Sara says nothing. She’s not sure what has her reeling the most – the fact that her father is now the Vice President of the United States, or that he has actually bothered to tell her this news in person before telling her what a complete and utter disappointment she is to him. Of course, it is perfectly in character for her father to have her brought to him – in a new government limo, no less – in order for him to lay down the law as to what was expected of a Vice President’s daughter.

“I’ve spoken to the DA,” he announces now, having finished telling her that this is the last time he is going to save her from her sordid little habit.

She stares at him. “You did what?”

Her father flicks an invisible speck of lint from the cuff of his snowy white shirt. “Did you think that after all the trouble I’ve gone to keep you out of headlines that I’d let this latest stunt of yours ruin one of the most important weeks of my life?”

Rage squeezes her throat like a fist until she can hardly get the words out. “My latest stunt?”

“What else would you call it?” He raises his eyebrows. “What’s that bullshit phrase they use? A cry for help?” He snorts. “Give me a break.”

She looks at his face, really looks at him, studying the man whom she has known all her life but is still a stranger to her. She knew when she was ten years old that nothing she did was ever going to be good enough, and yet here she is again, her stomach twisted in knots in the face of his disapproval. “There’s really no point in me trying to explain, is there?”

“I doubt it. I’m pretty sure I’ve heard all your excuses, Sara. You’re going back into rehab. This afternoon,” he adds before she can even open her mouth to speak. “Not that crackpot place you were in before – I think we all know what a waste of money that turned out to be.”

She stares at her father’s well manicured hands as he tells her that a car will take her home to collect her things – right now, in fact, a Vice President’s time is obviously scarce – and she wants nothing more than the courage to tell him to shove his influence and his power and his protection. But she doesn’t. She can’t afford to throw away the only lifeline she has, and he knows it as well as she does and she’s not sure who she hates more for that, him or herself.

Her father has always thought everything in a person’s life could be explained, divided into neat little boxes. He believes that anyone who steps outside the lines of convention does so because they want to – he’s never understood how the darkness can grab you by the throat and pull you away from everything and everyone, making you oblivious to anyone’s needs but your own.

“I’ve also spoken to Warden Pope,” he continues, the sound of his voice barely scratching the surface of her resentment. “He was reluctant at first – and I can’t say I blame him - but he eventually agreed that it would be in everybody’s best interests if your position was kept open until you returned.”

Her gaze snaps up to meet his. “I’m not sure I can go back to Fox River.” She’s not yet strong enough to spend ten hours working with the people she deceived, the place where Michael made a fool of her, the room in which she betrayed everything she’d sworn to uphold.

She’s not sure she ever will be.

“What, after telling me for years that it was the best place for you to be?” Her father shakes his head, his tone openly mocking. “I’d be grateful for the offer, if I were you. I think you’ll find most potential employers tend to shy away from people with your, how do I put this, colourful history.”

She frowns, not quite believing what she’s hearing. “I’m sorry, are you coercing me?”

“All I’m saying is that if you leave Fox River now it will be under a cloud of suspicion, despite the fact that no charges have been laid against you. If you stay, it will only serve to reinforce our stance that you had nothing to do with the break out.”

“And that looks so much better for you, doesn’t it?” Her voice is thick with both anger and tears she is determined not to shed. “Because God forbid you actually put someone else’s well-being or interests before yours.”

Her father smiles at her, but his eyes are cold. “Like father, like daughter, right?” He snorts. “There’s nothing as unattractive as a sanctimonious junkie, Sara. I know you like to believe that we’re nothing alike, but when’s the last time you put someone else’s needs before your own?”

She looks away, twisting her hands together so hard that the skin pulls tight over her knuckles, and tries very hard not to think of Michael Scofield.

~*~

“I’m so, so sorry. But I was so worried about you, and when we couldn’t get in touch with you, I thought they – he – might have done something-“

Sara presses her lips together into a hard line in order to stop herself from telling Katie that Michael would never have let that happen. “I understand,” she says finally.

“My job was on the line.” Katie isn’t a crying person, but her eyes are glittering dangerously. “And you know how much I need –“

“I know. You did the right thing.” Sara forces a smile as she lightly touches Katie's hand. “And I’m more grateful than I can ever say.”

She means it. Katie did the right thing and Sara knows and understands why she did it. She is grateful because she wouldn’t be sitting here now if Katie hadn’t told Pope of her suspicions.

Picking up a sofa cushion, Sara cradles it in her arms, trying to think of something to say that doesn’t sound stilted and rehearsed. Katie had knocked on her door half an hour ago. What’s left of their coffee has grown cold, their hesitant conversation stale.

“When are you coming back to work?”

She blinks at the blunt question, then shrugs. “My suspension remains in effect for another two weeks. After that, I don’t know.”

Katie frowns. “But I thought your father –“

“He did,” Sara says shortly, trying and failing to keep the bitter note out of her voice, “but I felt it was best to take a bit more time to sort out a few things.”

Katie nods as though she understands, as though she can even begin to comprehend what Sara has been through over the last few years. “Are you coming back at all?”

“To be perfectly honest with you, I don’t know.”

The word ‘honest’ hangs between them like an unspoken recrimination, then Katie gives her a hesitant smile. “You wanna go grab a bite to eat or something?”

“I’m a bit busy today, actually.”

They look at each other for a moment, and Sara sees the end of their casual friendship reflected in Katie’s dark eyes. “Sure thing. Maybe when you come back to work?”

“Sure.”

They both know it’s a lie, but it’s easier than facing the truth.

~*~

“Sara?”

“Yes?” Sara’s reply is automatic, but when she looks up from her newspaper into the eyes of the woman speaking, her whole body freezes. It’s been several weeks since she’s seen Veronica Donovan, but even with closely cropped hair, boyish clothes and grey tinted sunglasses, she would recognize her in a heartbeat.

Veronica slides into the long seat on the other side of the booth, managing to look both casual and wary at the same time, her body language reminding Sara of a cat tentatively exploring a new environment.

The other woman’s covert air is a forcible reminder of what has gone before, and Sara glances hurriedly around the coffee shop, her pulse suddenly hammering. “What are you doing here?” The words come out as an unsteady whisper. “How did you even know I was here?” She’s more than a little shaken. She had thought herself invisible in this unfamiliar coffee house on the outskirts of the city - a coffee house at which she had stopped on a whim. If Veronica could find her so easily, then she was far from invisible.

“It’s okay,” Veronica says in a tone that’s obviously meant to be soothing, but it only serves to inflame Sara’s nerves. “There’s no one tailing either of us and I’ll be out of here in less than two minutes.”

“Why are you here?” Sara repeats the question, her voice stronger this time.

“To see how you’re doing.”

She suddenly feels as though she’s swallowed a mouthful of broken glass. “Why?” Veronica just looks at her, and Sara shakes her head. "Forget I asked."

Veronica puts her elbows on the table between them, her gaze a blend of concern and curiosity. “Are you going back to work at Fox River?”

Determined not to ask how Veronica knows that she hasn’t yet returned to Fox River, Sara picks up her coat from the bench beside her and lays it across her lap. Her hands are shaking, she notes with detachment. “I haven’t decided.”

Veronica's voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper. “I know you’ve been through a lot.”

Lady, you don’t have the faintest idea of what I’ve been through, Sara thinks, but she merely shrugs. “It was rough but I survived.”

Veronica nods. “I hear you.”

The two women share a long, silent look, and Sara knows Veronica can see the question burning in her eyes. But she will not ask about Michael. She will not ask, even she though wants to know so badly that the words are almost burning a hole in her tongue.

“They’re okay,” Veronica finally says softly, her expression softening. “And they’re grateful.”

Sara’s stomach begins to churn. This was risky territory, not only for her carefully constructed denial but also for her rapidly weakening resolve not to care about Michael Scofield. “Where’s your friend?” she asks abruptly, needing a distraction for both of them. “What was his name, Nick?”

Something dark flickers in Veronica’s eyes. “He’s dead.”

“How?”

Veronica’s faces. “How do you think?” She glances away, and Sara sees that her eyes are wet.

Sara’s breath catches in her throat. “I’m so sorry,” she whispers unsteadily, not quite able to believe that the vibrant, determined man she’d met only weeks ago was dead.

Veronica looks back at her, her expression remote. “This thing goes much deeper than we first thought.”

Sara holds up her hand. “Please don’t say any more.” The words give her a hollow sense of déjà vu.

“Don’t worry, I won’t.” The other woman gives her a brittle smile. “You’re safer not knowing.”

Sara inhales sharply. Oh God, it wasn’t over. While she was here wallowing in her guilt and her misery and her anger, there were people out there still fighting for the truth about Terrance Steadman to come out. Still fighting for their lives. People like Veronica and Lincoln.

People like Michael.

Before she can say anything, Veronica slides out of the booth. “I have to go.” Pushing her glasses to the top of her head, she looks down at Sara and gives her a half-smile. “Be careful.”

Sara gets to her feet as well, torn between wanting to prolong the contact with this last link to Michael and wanting to run and pretend this conversation – and the last few months - never happened. The skin on the back of her neck begins to itch, making her long for something to numb the sensation, and she knows that this meeting, however brief, is dangerous in more ways than one. “You too.”

“Always.” Veronica hides her eyes with her sunglasses once more. “Is there any message you’d like me to pass on?”

Sara stares at her, conscious of the sudden thrum of her pulse fluttering in her wrists, at the base of her throat. The memory of Michael’s kiss is suddenly burning on her lips, but this is no longer about the two of them.

It never was.

“No.” Michael had once risked his life to save hers at Fox River – she had been in his debt, but now they were even. She needed to reclaim her life, and she needed to start right now. There was no point simply swapping one addiction for another. Lifting her chin, she gives Veronica a cool smile, her heart slowly crumbling with every word. “There’s nothing to say.”

~*~

Three months later, she's standing on the tiny balcony of an unfamiliar hotel room in another country, her head spinning with far too many uncomfortable thoughts.  Her elbows pressed against the cool metal railing, Sara stares unseeingly into the early evening crowd that fills the street below her hotel, her face damp with tears she doesn’t remember shedding.

Several weeks after her meeting with Veronica, and she is as far from reclaiming her life as she was on the night of the escape. She has been back at Fox River for over a month, yet she may as well not be there for all the difference she feels she makes. She and Katie still work well as a team, but there are no gossipy lunches, no coffee outings after work. The COs who once treated her with respect now refuse to meet her gaze – all except Bellick, of course, who looks at her with pure loathing in his eyes. And the Pope, after a tense conversation in which he made it quite clear that her reinstatement was not of his choosing, has made a point of keeping his distance. It wasn’t for her benefit alone that she’d been sent to a week-long conference in another country.

However, despite all of this, she would still leave that door unlocked if given a second chance. Lincoln Burrows hadn’t murdered Terrence Steadman. Her actions had saved an innocent man from the electric chair.

It's not quite that simple, of course. She can’t hide behind the sole excuse of taking the moral high ground. No matter how she looks at it, no matter how she tries to justify it, the bottom line is that she was stupid enough to imagine herself to be falling in love with a man who had barely managed to utter a dozen truthful words to her. Her heart still tries to tell her he had spoken the truth when he told her it hadn’t all been an act. Her head knows better.

Michael had clouded her thinking in a way that the drugs never had. The connection she felt to him had whittled away at her judgment, zeroing in on every single chink in her emotional armour. She’d never realised that empathy could be so dangerous. Lincoln had told her that Michael had been abandoned his whole life, a feeling Sara knew all too well. His psychiatrist, too, had told her many things. She didn’t even want to remember how deeply the words Michael came to me with little or no self-worth had affected her, let alone his opinion that Michael was a genius who couldn’t ignore the suffering of others. Sara wasn’t a genius, but she hadn’t become a doctor because she wanted the BMW and the big house.

That it was Frank Tencredi’s lies and Michael’s long-overdue honesty that had helped her make her decision was the ultimate irony. I did what I could. I gave my father the information. She had trusted her father to do the right thing, and he had once again chosen his ambition over her. To this day she doesn’t know why she’d been so shocked to learn that he hadn’t even bothered to read the file she’d given him. Until that moment, standing in the middle of his club, surrounded by the laughter of his minions and cronies, she’d still believed that he’d done the best he could. And then he’d told her that he’d done nothing at all, breaking her heart for what felt like the thousandth time, and suddenly her decision seemed that much clearer.

Her blind faith in her father had come to nothing, and their poor, pallid relationship seemed even more pitiful compared to the one that Scofield and Burrows shared. Michael loved his brother so much that he’d been willing to give up everything – his career, his freedom, perhaps even his own life – to save him. When he’d finally dropped his guard and spoken to her with such brutal honesty in the infirmary on the day of the escape, it had been a revelation. She had been almost frozen with anger, but she’d also been stunned by the depth of his emotion. She could only imagine what it was like to love someone like that – to be loved like that.

For Michael, it had never been about her, or even himself. It had all come down to saving his brother’s life and the lengths to which he was prepared to go. In fact, when she’d discovered exactly which prisoners he’d chosen to take along for the ride, her belief that he would have never allowed any harm to come to her had finally been shaken. Abruzzi was bad enough, but that he had chosen to free someone like Bagwell – even if it had only been temporary – in the quest to save his brother was an unwelcome confirmation that Michael Scofield was one of most ruthless people she’d ever met. She’s very glad she never had to find out, one way or another, how much her life was worth compared to the success of his grand plan.

She stares blindly into the strolling crowds for a few more minutes, then lifts her head. “Damn it.” Before she can change her mind, she walks back inside and flips off the main overhead light, leaving the room bathed in nothing more than the soft lighting coming from the ensuite. She doesn’t bother to unlock the door. If he is determined to see her, something as simple as the lack of a hotel passkey isn’t going to stop him.

“This is crazy,” she mutters, running her hands through her dishevelled hair, refusing to give into the ridiculous urge to check her reflection in the mirror. She does allow herself a critical glance down at her clothing, musing that the Fox River doctor Michael knows would never been seen in loose drawstring pants and a fitted t-shirt that proclaims her love for Barbados. She’s never bought a tourist t-shirt before in her life, but it seemed churlish to refuse the small child who’d offered it to her. She realised later, of course, that the child in question was probably as seasoned a salesman as the slickest Chicago secondhand car dealer, but these are the things you chalk up to experience.

Sara walks across the room, rubbing her bare arms with her hands, then casts a longing look at the bar fridge. She looks at it for quite a while, then turns her head away, angry with herself for still being able to taste the Chablis she drank earlier on the back of her tongue.

She returns to the balcony, the embers of a slow-burning anger beginning to glow in the pit of her stomach. She could blame the unfamiliar sun and the boredom and the frustration of feeling as though she’s just – still – treading water and going nowhere slowly. She could blame the hollow ache of isolation that gripped her as she watched her peers mingling in a world that was no longer hers. She could blame the fact that her skin is still jumping from the sensation of being watched by a possibly familiar pair of eyes. It doesn’t matter why. What matters is that she wasn’t strong enough to resist a fucking complimentary Mai Tai and two glasses of overpriced wine. If she’s not strong enough for that, then what makes her think she’s strong enough to see Michael Scofield?

She runs nervous hands through her hair once more, knowing that she is only making it worse. The humidity in the air has made it unruly, and she gave up trying to do anything decent with it after the first day here. She looks a mess and she feels a mess, but somehow that seems the appropriate state in which to face the man who left her and her life in such hopeless disarray.

She was right. This is crazy – she should call hotel security, the police, even the Pope – but she has no intention of touching that telephone. This is something she needs to do. If she loses her nerve now, she will regret everything she didn’t say to him for the rest of her life.

She stands on the balcony of her hotel room, a thousand miles from Fox River, and she waits. She has no idea how much time passes - her watch is sitting on the small desk in the room behind her - but she suspects knowing the time would make no difference to the odd, floating sensation that has invaded her body.

When she hears the soft click of the lock, she closes her eyes, her fingers gripping the metal railing of the balcony so tightly that her fingertips begin to sting. She hears no footsteps, but she can imagine his measured tread only too well.

“Sara.”

The memory of his voice has haunted her for months, but hearing it now is almost surreal. She looks down at her bare arms, unsurprised to find goosebumps rippling across her skin despite the warm night air. She closes her eyes, prays for the strength to do this, then turns around.

Michael Scofield is standing just inside the room, half-hidden in the shadows as he leans against the frame of the sliding glass door. She cannot see his face, but she feels the familiar weight of his gaze all the same. Her heart hammering wildly, she is torn between the impulse to pick up the lounge chair and throw it at his head or to obey the command from her nervous system to slide to the ground in a shaking heap.

She doesn’t speak. She can’t. Her voice seems to have vanished along with her bravado. After what feels like several hours, he moves into the light just enough for her to see that he looks for all the world like a college graduate on holidays. Long-sleeved green hooded shirt, blue jeans, sneakers. He's unshaven, holding a baseball cap in one hand and wearing fashionable black-rimmed glasses she knows he doesn’t need. Still in disguise, she thinks hazily.

Seeing him in her dreams has been disturbing enough. Seeing him in the flesh makes her feel as though someone has reached into her chest and squeezed her heart in their fist.

“You shouldn’t be here,” she tells him, and is surprised at how normal she sounds. As though she converses with men who seduced and betrayed her every other day. As though the mere sight of him isn’t breaking her heart all over again.

“I know.”

“Then why are you?”

The sudden flash of heat in his gaze has her taking a step backwards, but there’s nowhere for her to go. “Well, if you’ll excuse the cliché,” he answers slowly, the faintest hint of a rueful smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, “I think we need to talk.”

She folds her arms across her chest, tucking her hands under her arms. “What would you like me to say, Michael?” After so much time spent thinking about him, it feels odd to say his name out loud. “That I’m happy to see you? Or maybe should I ask how the weather is wherever you happen to be hanging out these days?”

He pulls off his glasses, casually dangling them from his fingertips. His eyes are just as clear and vivid as she remembered. “Say whatever you like.”

She leans back against the railing until the metal bar begins to push into the curve of her spine. She focuses on the discomfort for ten slow seconds before offering him a calm, “I’m glad you’re alive.”

He looks faintly taken aback, then flashes what she suspects is meant to be a disarming smile, and god damn him, it almost works. “That’ll do.”

Breathe. Just breathe. “Why are you here?”

“I told you.”

“I know what you told me.” The fact that she sounds as though she’s in total control of her emotions pleases her quite a bit. “I’d like to know the real reason.”

A flicker of irritation flashes across his face. “Do you really need to ask?”

“Yes, I do. Because I thought I actually knew you, if only a little bit, and then I found out that I didn’t know you at all.” He looks away, and she feels a small thrill of vindication.

“I came to apologise.” He stares out into the darkening sky. “To explain.” He turns his head, his gaze snagging hers once more. “And to thank you.”

“Why now?”

“I could hardly visit you at Fox River.” A smirk curves his mouth, and it’s so familiar that her fingers itch to trace the curve of his bottom lip. “The security is a little more lax here.”

She barely restrains the urge to smack her palm against her forehead. Even harder to control, though, is the urge to smack him. “You’ve been watching me.”

“Yes.”

She frowns at him. “Ever since I arrived?”

He has the good grace to look embarrassed. “Yes.”

It hadn’t been her imagination, the Mai Tai or the sun. It should make her feel better to know that she hasn’t been seeing things, but it’s rather difficult to see the positive side of the situation at this point in time. “Why?”

“I had to be sure.”

“Of what?”

“That you were here alone.” He glances over his shoulder, his eyes scanning the room behind him. “That no one else was watching you.”

“What do you mean?”

He takes one step backwards, half-disappearing into the shadows once more. “Your father’s moved up in the world, Sara.”

He’s moving about the room now, running his fingers under the edge of the small writing desk, looking behind the framed print on the wall. “You changed rooms on the evening of your first day here.”

She shouldn’t be surprised that he knows this, and yet she is. “Yes.”

“Why?”

“The first room was on a smoking floor so I requested to be moved.” Annoyed that her automatic response was to answer him without a second thought, she eyes him warily. “Why?”

For a moment, he doesn’t answer – he’s too busy examining the telephone – but then he gives her a brisk smile. “Just wondering if your father was keeping tabs on you.”

“You’re checking for surveillance?” She snorts with derision. “Please. He’s got more things to worry about than whether or not I’m disgracing the family name at a second-rate medical conference.”

He replaces the telephone receiver and looks at her with something approaching sympathy. “I’m sorry about that.”

She takes a deep breath and steps away from the balcony railing that seems to have become her security blanket, walking to the sliding door to watch as he moves around her room. “Did you think I’d have the Secret Service standing guard outside my room?”

“You tell me.”

As if by tactic agreement, their conversation is being conducted in loud whispers, the type used by bad stage actors to indicate a dreadful secret being imparted. She knows full well that her father accepted her refusal of a watcher – one less thing they will owe each other – but that doesn’t stop her suddenly feeling as though every word is one more risk they’re taking.

“No,” she tells him, if only to stop him wandering about her room. “I wanted to be as anonymous as possible, and it’s hard to be anonymous when you have hired goons trailing after you.” He grins at that, and her stomach clenches. “But I doubt you’d let a little thing like that stop you, anyway. I’m guessing you didn’t just walk into the hotel through the foyer like a normal person?”

That earns her another grin. “Good guess.”

She watches as he peers into the small bathroom, feeling perversely as though she is being ignored. “Are you here alone?”

An odd stillness comes over him, and he suddenly seems very interested in the lamp on the bedside table. “I came here alone, yes.”

“Where’s Lincoln?”

“He’s safe.” He glances at her with unreadable eyes, a muscle in his jaw fluttering. “For now.”

“And the others?”

A half-smile touches his lips, as though he finds the question amusing. “You don’t really expect me to answer that.”

“I guess not.”

He’s watching her, and she’s tries to ignore the fact that he is doing just that, then she gives herself a mental shake. Enough of this. Straightening her shoulders, she looks him in the eye. “Well, this is all very nice, Michael, but if you’ve finished saying what you came to say, I think you need to leave.” There’s a tightness in her chest, the kind that only comes when you’re trying very hard to keep it all together and you know you’re about to fail very badly. “Because you’re not doing either of us any favours by being here.”

He carefully places his baseball cap and glasses onto her bedside table, his movements as measured as always, and she can’t help thinking that his belongings don’t look out of place there. Then she tells herself that she is a fool.

“I came to thank you for saving Lincoln’s life.”

She shakes her head. “Don’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t want the responsibility of being his salvation,” she snaps, her voice growing louder. “You saved him, Michael. If I hadn’t helped you, you would have found another way. I was just another cog in your grand plan.”

“That’s not true.”

“You can stop lying, Michael.”

“I’m not lying.”

“Lincoln’s alive and you’re free.” She doesn’t let herself think about the fact that both those facts could be altered in the blink of an eye. “You got exactly what you wanted, so you may as well drop the act.”

“I’d tell you that it wasn’t all an act, but we’ve already had this discussion, remember?” He speaks slowly and softly, but she still gets the impression that he’s gritting his teeth. “As I recall, you didn’t believe me then, so I doubt you’ll believe any answer I give you now.”

“I can’t afford to. I believed in you, Michael. Worse than that, I trusted you.” She doesn’t bother to mask the accusation in her voice. “We both know what happened to the people who believed and trusted in you.”

His face tightens, and he suddenly looks every one of his years. “It wasn’t supposed to play out the way it did.”

“I very much doubt that’s of much comfort to Westmoreland.”

Some dark emotion flares in his eyes. “Charles knew what he was getting into.”

“Unlike the rest of us,” she shoots back, her words steeped in bitterness.

His gaze narrows, but he merely says, “You weren’t supposed to be involved.”

“So you keep saying. Look, this is pointless,” she continues quickly before he can speak, knowing that if she can keep talking, she can keep him at a distance. “Why are you here, risking your freedom?”

He says nothing, his eyes locking with hers as the ghost of a past conversation rises up around them, and she sees the distance between them for the illusion it is.

Why are you here, crawling around in the ceiling, risking your life?

You needed help, and I came to find you.

They stare at each other, the warm early evening air suddenly thick with everything they’ve refused to admit to each other. Wrapping her arms a little tighter around herself, she can’t deny that she is as far from immune to his saviour complex as she ever was. He may not have come here to rescue her, but she suddenly wants to let him take her away - from herself, from the disaster that her life has become. Wants it so badly that it’s in danger of becoming a physical ache.

But she can’t. He may have saved her once, but he’s the last person who can help her now.

“You shouldn’t have come here.” Her heart in her mouth, she steps into the room, forcing herself to walk past him. He makes no move to touch her, but she feels his eyes on her with every step she takes.

“I had to see you,” he says in a quiet voice behind her. “Veronica told me that you were doing fine, but I just - ” He breaks off, and by the time she’s turned around, he’s staring at a non-existent mark on the carpet near his right foot.

She half perches on the edge of the writing desk, arms folded across her chest – defensive body language at its most obvious, she thinks unhappily – and is at a loss as to what he expects from her. She scarcely knows what she expects from herself. All she knows is that the longer he stays in this room, the harder it is to keep her distance, to maintain the tightly clamped lid on her emotions. She is determined not to give into the temptation to shrilly act out three months of hurt and frustration. She knows full well that such a course of action would not end any better than it had in her dreams. Michael Scofield wrote the rule book on emotional camouflage. She could rant and rave at him until her throat is raw, but he will never be able to give her the answers she wants to hear.

Finally, he turns to look at her, his voice little more than a whisper. “I wanted to -” He hesitates, but only for a few seconds. “I know how difficult it would have been for you. Afterwards, I mean.”

“Difficult?” Her temper splinters, making her forget her resolution to be calm in one unthinking heartbeat. “You have no idea what helping you has cost me, so don’t you dare come here expecting forgiveness.”

He holds up his hands, whether in surrender or appeal, she’s not sure. “I’m not asking for forgiveness. I just wanted you to know -”

“I know enough,” she cuts him off. “My father delighted in telling me all the sordid details before they hit the press.”

His face tightens. “That was nice of him.”

“Wasn’t it?” She gives him a brittle smile that makes her lips feel cold and stretched too thin. “He took great delight in telling me how you’d done your homework on everything and everyone you intended to use.” Her mocking smile fading, she lifts her chin to glare at him. “What about me, Michael? Did you do your homework on me, too?”

“Yes.”

Sara had no idea that one word could hurt quite so much. She’d wanted the truth from him, but now she can’t help but crave the false comfort of ignorance. “Be the change you want to see in the world,” she finally whispers, realisation dawning with terrible clarity.

He shoves his hands in the pockets of his jeans, his silence all the confirmation she needs.

“You had a copy of my senior year book?” Saying it out loud sounds even more ludicrous than thinking it. He still says nothing, but there’s no need. She already knows the answer. “Jesus, you really did do your homework, didn’t you? What else do you know about me? My social security number? My shoe size?” She feels sick. “How about the name of my childhood dog?”

“Sara-“

“It was all a lie, wasn’t it?”

“No.”

“God, you just can’t stop lying even now, can you?”

“Listen to me.” His eyes burn into hers; she wants to look away, but she forces herself to return his gaze. She is not afraid of him, only of herself. “I walked into Fox River knowing your face and the story of your life, but I didn’t know you.”

“And that’s supposed to make me feel better?”

“I was there to save my brother’s life. End of story. Nothing else mattered. I expected to make both friends and enemies, but I didn’t expect -” he breaks off, looking annoyed with himself.

She tries to ignore the stuttering of her heart. “What?”

He looks at the darkening sky, then at the ground between his feet, then finally at her. “I didn’t expect you.”

“Right.” She scoffs, wishing she could ignore the frantic pulse beating at the back of her throat. “Michael, if you’re about to tell me that I was the best part of your day, please spare us both the embarrassment.”

“I wasn’t,” he shoots back, his voice hardening, and she feels – stupidly - as though he’s slapped her in the face. “The best part of my day was any time I managed to spend with my brother.” He pauses, and she has the sense that he is choosing his words with great care. “My time with you was something altogether different, something hidden from everyone else.” His eyes never leave her face, and she can’t stop the answering flutter of her pulse any more than she can stop breathing. “Something I wanted as well as needed.”

“Right,” she says flatly, his flattery ringing as hollow as his insistence that he never meant to involve her in his machinations.

“You have to understand that everything I did, I did for Lincoln.”

“You know, Michael, I get that. I always got that.” Suddenly feeling chilled, she rubs her hands up her bare arms, stopping when his gaze begins to follow the movement of her hands. “I envy you, you know,” she adds, realizing it’s a rather odd thing to say to a fugitive with a price on his head, but it’s the truth. “I can only imagine what it would be like to have someone care that much.” She doesn’t add about me but she suspects they both hear what she doesn’t say.

He opens his mouth to speak, pauses, then offers her a cool, “Your father cared enough when push came to shove.”

“Excuse me?”

“No charges were laid against you and you kept your job.”

And I bet that made your conscience feel so much better, she accuses him silently. “My father did what he did in order to protect his career, not me.”

“Still the cynic, I see.”

Resentment leaps up a notch towards anger, and she knows that she’s reached the official end of her tether. “I think you should leave.” He takes a step towards her, and she puts up her hand, shaking her head. “Don’t.”

He ignores her. Closing the distance between them in two long strides, he catches her hand in his and pulls her away from the desk, his fingertips trailing across her palm as he tangles his fingers with hers. She inhales sharply, her desperate hope that the sexual frisson between them may have faded dissolving in a flash of white-hot hunger that rips through her entire body. “I put you in a no-win situation, and I will always regret that.” She freezes as he lifts her hand to his lips. His breath is soft and warm on her skin, then she feels the touch of his mouth on her knuckles. “But I’ll never regret the time I spent with you.”

“Don’t.” She wrenches her hand away from his grasp, the feel of his lips burning on her skin. “Don’t you dare give me that hearts and flowers bullshit.”

His hands drop to his sides. “You have every right to feel angry,” he says calmly.

“I wasn’t aware I needed your permission.” She takes a half step toward him, feeling as though she’s moving in slow motion, as though her dreams have become her waking nightmare. “You have no right to drag me back into your life,” she hisses, afraid that if she raises her voice, she will never stop shouting. He says nothing, and his silence incenses her. “Damn you, Michael,” she bites out, her hands curled into fists, pressing hard against her thighs. “I wish I’d never met you.”

The barb stings him – she sees it in his eyes. His gaze narrows, but then he simply shrugs.

Fury boils up inside her, pushing aside anything but the thought of shattering that infuriatingly implacable expression. “Did you even stop to think of the mess you were leaving behind?” Putting both hands on his chest, she pushes him with considerable force. He lets out a faint oof as his back hits the wall, but she doesn’t care. Neither does he, apparently. He simply looks at her sadly, as though he feels he deserves nothing less, and it only serves to infuriate her further. “God damn you, Michael,” she says again, her voice thick with tears. “You got what you wanted and that’s all that matters, right?”

He doesn’t answer. He merely watches her, his thoughts hidden behind eyes that see too much and give away so little, and the urge to shatter his aura of perfectly controlled detachment bursts through her head like a blinding flash of light. Taking his face in her hands, she kisses him, hard.

His hands come up to grip her elbows as he takes a step backwards, his back thumping against the wall once more. For a few endless seconds he seems shocked into immobility, then his mouth opens under hers. Her fingers digging into his scalp, she kisses him with a furious hunger, tasting coffee and mint on his tongue, her skin rippling with sensation as the familiar scent of his skin washes over her.

His hands are suddenly on her hips, pulling her closer. She knows he wants her as much as she wants him – he’s hard and urgent, pressing against her - and lust begins to soak into her anger, her blood burning with the taste and feel of him. Rising up on her toes, she kisses him again - just as she has in her dreams for so long, angry and desperate - curling her tongue around his, letting her teeth scrape against his bottom lip. He groans, a harsh sound of surrender that makes her skin prickle, then his mouth covers hers in a fierce kiss that sends a ripple of heat from her breasts to her belly. Arching her back, she presses him against the wall with the full weight of her body, her hands slipping under his sweatshirt, hazily aware of his muscles flinching under her touch.

She drops her hands to the top button of his jeans, then cups her palm over the hard heat between his legs. “Jesus,” he breathes roughly against her mouth as she curls her fingers around him, making him arch into her touch, then he reaches down, his long fingers encircling her wrist. “Sara, wait.”

She shakes her head, fuelled by rage and desire and the desperate need to feel something, anything but this dull, pounding nothingness that is slowly eating away at her. “No.” Her breasts are aching, pushing against his chest. She wants to put her hands around his beautiful neck and press her fingers down hard against his skin until his breath comes short. She wants him to feel just a little of the darkness that claws at her every time she thinks of him. “Come on, Michael.” Her voice sounds like a stranger’s. “Are you telling me you’ve never once thought about it?”

“Every day since we first met,” is his blunt answer, and it gives her great satisfaction to hear the strangled note in his voice. “But I didn’t come here for this.”

Somewhere inside her, a voice of reason is struggling to make itself heard, but it’s too late. The floodgates have been opened and she is flying high on resentment and hurt and she doesn’t know how to stop. She puts her lips to his ear, letting her teeth scrape against his earlobe as she speaks. “The hell you didn’t.”

He shudders, then catches both her hands in his. “Not like this.”

“Then what would you suggest? Dinner and a show? Champagne and caviar?” She shakes her head. “Because that’s never what this has been about, has it?”

“It was never about this.” He presses his forehead against hers, and she is flung back into the moment when she’d last kissed him, a soft, gentle kiss that almost breaks her to remember. “This isn’t what you want, Sara, either. Not like this.”

“How the hell would you know?” She leans back and tries to jerk away from his touch but his hands tighten around her wrists.

“Because, whether you want to admit it or not, I know you.” His expressions softens, his gaze roaming her face as though he is trying to learn it by heart. “Just like you know me.”

She stares at him for a long moment, her heart hammering violently, then something inside her collapses, fury-forged stone crumbling into dust. A choked sob catches in her throat, then he’s pulling her into his arms, holding her so tightly that she can hardly breathe. “I’m so sorry,” he whispers against her temple, his lips barely gazing her overheated skin. His heart is pounding against hers, his breathing ragged - if she wasn’t so consumed with the knowledge that she’d just made a fool out of herself, she might have found his condition flattering.

She doesn’t know how long he holds her, but it’s long enough for it to become awkward for both of them. Her whole body is practically humming with sensation, but mortification is slowly winning out, her face flushed with as much embarrassment as it is with desire. She pulls away first, looking everywhere but directly at him.

Putting his hands on her shoulders, he gently eases her away from him, then tugs at the bottom of her t-shirt, smoothing it down over her bared stomach. “If you only believe one thing I say, believe me when I say that I never meant to involve you.” He ducks his head slightly, trying to catch her eyes with his.

“Considering the infirmary was an integral part of your plan,” she says shakily, her skin now prickling with shame rather than desire, “you’ll excuse me if I don’t quite believe you.”

He makes a tch sound of pure frustration, his hands dropping from her hips. He’s still breathing heavily, his eyes dark with the same raw hunger that is still clawing at her gut, his mouth as kiss-swollen as hers feels. “It was the drain in the corner of your office that I needed, not you.”

She stares at him, feeling somewhat like a small animal trapped in headlights. “What?”

A half-smile tugs at the corner of his mouth – laughing at her, not with her, she thinks darkly – then he takes her carefully by the arm. “Could we sit, do you think?” He pushes himself away from the wall, and for the first time she notices that he’s not quite steady on his feet.

“Are you hurt?” The words are out of her mouth before she realises, and she wishes – not for the first time – that the urge to heal and soothe wasn’t quite so ingrained.

He shrugs as he attempts to steer her across the room. “It’s nothing.”

She looks down. It takes her two seconds to work out that he’s favouring his right leg. “I doubt that,” she snipes back, thankful for the chance to pull on her professional mask.

“I’m just a little worn out, that’s all.” She gives him a pointed look, slipping further into the echoes of their past relationship. He sighs, but a faint glimmer of amusement dances in his eyes. “And I may have twisted my knee a few days ago.”

She nods hesitantly towards the knee in question. “Did you want me to -”

“No.”

She’s glad of his swift refusal. After what’s just happened, she’s in no fit state to examine him as a medical professional. She lets him guide her into the middle of the room where they share an oddly familiar moment of indecision. Finally, suppressing the absurd urge to laugh, Sara finally gestures towards the bed. “Please.”

He drops onto the bed with what looks like relief, his elbows resting on his thighs, his hands loosely linked between his knees. “Just like old times.”

Such lightweight conversation should be jarring after her emotional brain-snap, but she’s grateful for the respite. “Slightly more comfortable than a psych unit bunk,” she points out lightly as she sits down beside him, careful to leave a reassuring gap between them.

“It couldn’t be any worse, trust me.”

She tries to smile but her lips, still tingling after that bruising kiss, don’t seem willing to cooperate. “You came here to talk, Michael, so talk.”

He takes a moment to answer, looking at her with different eyes, wanting and knowing, his gaze lingering a little too long on her lips. “It was a mistake to come here.”

Her mouth is dry. “I agree, but it would hardly be the first one you’ve made, would it?” He slants her a dark look. She ignores it. “But you are here, so talk to me.”

He exhales a long, slow breath. “For your own sake, it’s better if you don’t know any more than you already do.”

“You told me once that there were answers to the questions I had about you.” She puts her hand on his arm, the gesture at once strange and familiar. “If you want me to trust you, Michael, you have to return the favour.” Their eyes lock. “Tell me enough to make me understand.”

He hesitates. “It’s a long story.”

She pulls her hand away and shifts restlessly on the bed, entirely too aware of the warmth of his thigh not an inch from hers. “Then talk fast.”

“Where you like me to start?”

Sara takes a deep breath. When in doubt, start at the beginning. “Why did you rob that bank? Actually,” she amends hastily, “I think why did you do such a bad job of robbing that bank would be a better question.”

“Well, studies have shown that it’s much harder to break someone out of prison when you’re on the outside.” He answers so casually that it takes a few seconds for his words to sink in. When they do, just like that, the pieces of the puzzle that is Michael Scofield click into place.

Perhaps later, when her thoughts aren’t being pulled in ten different directions, she will appreciate the fact that she’d been right about him from the start. She hears her own voice, trying to explain her misgivings to Katie. I don’t get it. Guys like him drink twelve year old scotch whiskey, they pay $200 for Cubs’ tickets. They don’t rob banks.

The enormity of his sacrifice is almost incomprehensible, and she’s not sure whether she wants to laugh or cry. “My God,” she whispers finally, scarcely able to believe what she already knows to be true. “You orchestrated the whole thing.”

“Lincoln is innocent. I did what had to be done.” He shrugs carelessly, but now she knows the darkness in his eyes for what it really is.

She reaches out her hand, touching him lightly on the arm. “Tell me more.” He looks at her, his eyes glittering, and she curls her hand around his wrist. “Please.”

He does.

With increasing incredulity, Sara listens as the story of months of meticulous planning unfolds. How he removed the blueprints from his firm’s archives. How he spent weeks memorizing dates and times and chemical formulas. How he painstakingly researched the people whose help he would need to save Lincoln’s life, gambling and bargaining with his own life so that his plan could come to fruition.

She knows he’s only telling her a fraction of his secrets, but for now, it’s enough. “How on earth did you remember all this?” She knows he’s an intelligent man, but this was pushing the boundaries a little too far.

He pulls up his left sleeve of his sweatshirt, and they both gaze down at the tattoos swirling over his skin. “It’s all here.”

They sit in silence as she traces the patterns with trembling fingertips, remembering as she does the complex designs that cover his chest and back. Genius indeed. She’s speechless and more than a little uneasy. It’s said that there’s a fine line between genius and insanity, and she wonders briefly just how much pretence was needed on his part the night she found him curled into a bloodied ball in the SHU.

She touches the smooth skin just below the curve of his elbow, rubbing her thumb over the spot she’s marked so many times with her needles. How could she have seen these pictures every day for weeks and not noticed anything special about them? “Am I on here?” she asks eventually, unsure as to what she’d like to hear as an answer.

“No.” He lifts his other hand to his face, taps his temple with two fingers. “You were in here.”

Flattery isn’t supposed to get you everywhere, but the writer of that particular cliché hadn’t met Michael Schofield. “Why?”

“Let’s just say it was easy to remember things about you.” She flushes, and he gives her a faintly sheepish smile. “There’s something else I need to tell you. Something that you’re not going to want to hear.”

“After this,” she touches his wrist where the line of blue ink blends into his tanned skin, “nothing could surprise me.”

“We’ll see.” He clears his throat. “You were being concerned about my being misdiagnosed as a diabetic?”

“I remember.” She doesn’t bother mentioning that she remembers every word they’ve ever exchanged.

“You were right.”

She pulls her hand away, stung anew by just how completely he’d fooled her. Just when she thought she had a handle on the lengths to which he’d been prepared to go, she realised she had no idea at all. “Quite a trick,” she says flatly. For a moment she wavers between nursing her wounded pride or satisfying her curiosity, then curiosity wins out. “How did you do it?”

“Pugnac.”

Her eyes widen. “Very clever.”

“I’m going to assume that’s not a compliment.”

“No, I mean it. You had me totally convinced.” In more ways than one, she thinks darkly. “Any side effects?”

“A few.” He shrugs. “But I’m fine.”

There would have been more than a few, and she wouldn’t be at all surprised if he hadn’t done himself permanent damage. “Michael, you need a thorough physical.”

“Are you offering?” She gives him a baleful look, but he seems cheerfully unabashed. “I’ve seen a doctor. I’m okay.”

She frowns, not wanting to think of what kind of physician a wanted fugitive might be forced to visit. “A real doctor?”

He smirks. “He had a white coat and everything.”

She feels an answering smile touch her lips. “That’s always reassuring.” Her smile fades. “There’s something else I’d like to ask.”

“Go ahead.”

“Charles Westmoreland?”

His whole body seems to stiffen. “What about him?”

“He died from a stab wound to the abdomen, but the autopsy results showed that he’d received the injury hours before the time of your break out.”

He closes his eyes. “I suspect it happened during the scuffle that ended with a particular CO being trussed up beneath the guards’ room.” Opening his eyes, he looks at her, his expression more than a little sorrowful. “Charles didn’t tell anyone how badly he was hurt,” he says softly, “and by the time we reached the infirmary it was too late.” The smooth skin of his throat works as he swallows hard, not meeting her eyes. “I should have known he was hurt. I could have done something -”

“You said it yourself. He knew what he was getting into.” As she says the words, the dull ache in her chest eases just a little. “Bellick blamed you, you know. Said he’d seen you stab the old man yourself.”

Michael’s gaze hardens. “And you believed him?”

She doesn’t hesitate. “No.”

He lifts his hand as if to touch her, then lets it drop. “Anything else?” His voice is soft and smoky, so laden with words unspoken that a shiver dances down her spine.

“My keys,” she murmurs, slowly twisting her hands together. “You had Nika steal them from me, didn’t you?” She would like very much to ask several other questions about Nika – it’s just business – but she won’t. Not now.

“Yes.” He does touch her then, a fleeting brush of his fingers on the back of her hand. “I didn’t want to go down that path. But things changed, and the plan had to change with them.”

“Why didn’t you just take them yourself during your visit?” She feels a heated blush creeping up her throat, but she forces herself to go on. “You certainly managed to distract me enough to do it.”

“Because you weren’t the only one who got distracted.” He looks away, then turns to her, his eyes gleaming. “I planned to take them. I needed to take them. And then I kissed you.”

She stares at him, her breath caught somewhere in the middle of her chest. “And then?”

“And then I couldn’t do it.”

“Why not?”

His gaze sharpens with unmistakable hunger. “Because in that moment in that room, all I needed was to keep kissing you.”

She swallows hard, trying to dislodge the sudden lump in her throat. Needing a reprieve from his eyes, she looks down to see she’s twisting her hands together so hard that the skin over her knuckles is white. It’s disheartening to know that he brings out every single one of her nervous tics, but twisting her hands together is better than the alternative of reaching out to him. She wants so much for him to touch her and she knows she can’t let it happen because she cannot think when he touches her and she needs to know one more thing, needs to know that it really hadn’t all been a lie.

It won’t always be like this, in this room, in this place.

“What you said to me -” she whispers, not looking at him.

“I meant it.”

She stares at her hands for a long time, then his voice disturbs the heavy silence. “I should go.”

She should be relieved. She’s not. “Yes.”

Another moment passes, then his hand touches hers, untangling her twisted fingers gently, his thumb stroking the soft skin on the inside of her wrist. “Tell me to go.”

She curls her hand to press her palm against his - threads her fingers through his, presses her knee against his – and feels as though she’s watching herself from a great distance. “No.”

Out of the corner of her eye she sees his body twist gracefully, then his other hand is curling around the nape of her neck, tilting back her head. His eyes are glowing with hunger and something else she doesn’t dare begin to name. She sees this much, then her eyes close and he’s kissing her, his lips soft and hard and exactly what she wants and she’s falling, falling so fast that the air around them begins to spin and blur. A shiver of desire washes over her, smothering her anger like a blanket. She doesn’t want to think - she’s so tired of thinking - she needs to feel, she needs to feel him, but she’s still so afraid. Then his hands are smoothing over the curve of her hips, skimming up her arms, threading through her hair and he’s kissing her as though he plans to never stop kissing her and she can almost believe there’s still a chance he might be able to save them both.

He gently pulls away, his hands still buried in her hair, his gaze burning a trail from her lips to her eyes. “If you don’t want this -”

Sara puts her hands on his chest, her fingers splayed wide over the pounding of his heart. There will be a price to be paid for whatever path she chooses, but for the first time – here in this room, in this place – there is nothing and no one else. There is only them, and the thought is as intoxicating as it is terrifying. The taste, the feel, of this man is in her blood now, etched into her bones. She is afraid, but she wants – needs - this just as much as he does. She is not going to run away from the truth of what is between them. “I do.”

He smiles, then rises to his feet and holds out his hand to her. She takes it without hesitation, his palm a perfect fit against hers. He pulls her upwards until she’s on her feet and then he’s kissing her, a delicate exploration of her mouth that quickly becomes something more, something lush and heavy that makes her knees feel like water. One of his hands tangles in her hair, the other sliding around to the small of her back, urging her closer. He shifts his stance until her hips are cradled against his, the heavy ridge of his erection pressing hard against the hot ache between her legs. A sigh whispers from her lips to his, and the blood begins to sing in her veins. She opens her mouth to his fierce kiss, the warmth of his mouth tasting better than she imagined anything could taste, her fingers digging into his shoulders as much to stay on her feet as to touch him.

Finally he lifts his head, staring at her with an almost dazed expression, then he smiles. “I like the t-shirt,” he says, trailing one finger along the neckline.

It takes her a moment to remember she’s wearing her tourist purchase. “Thanks.”

He kisses her again, his fingers tracing a line from her collarbone down to the curve of her breast. She breathes in, then out, then in again. Basic everyday functions suddenly seem difficult to remember. His touch is very light, so light that it’s maddening. His fingertips trail downwards, sweeping underneath the curve of her breast until his hand comes to rest lightly on her ribcage. As though he’s waiting for permission. As though there could be a doubt left in his head as to whether she wants him to touch her.

Slipping her hand around the back of his neck, she draws his face down to hers, kissing him with a hunger that shocks her, drinking in the dark sweetness of his mouth. A soft groan rumbles deep in his chest, then she feels the brush of his fingertips on the bare skin of her belly, just beneath the hem of her t-shirt. His teeth scrape lightly against her tongue, then his warm hands are beneath her shirt, sliding up her stomach to cup her breasts.

Oh.

A soft sound of pleasure snags in the back of her throat as she arches her back, leaning into his touch. Her nipples draw up tightly beneath the achingly soft brush of his palms, the heat of his hands warming her skin through her bra. He pulls back in the same instant she realises she’s trembling as if with cold, his face alive in a way she’s never seen before. “Do you have – are you -?”

“I’m good if you are,” she says shakily, trying to remember that she’s used to plain-speaking about such things. The logistics of sexual health have never seemed quite so awkward.

He smiles down at her, standing in the circle of his arms. His hands are still beneath her shirt, but now his clever fingers are tracing the line of her spine. “I’m good.”

“Thank God for that,” she murmurs, making him smile again, then she slips her hands up under his sweatshirt. His skin is warm and smooth, and the reality of his flesh beneath her hands hums beneath her own skin. When she lightly scrapes her nails down his back, the sound of his sharp intake breath seems to meld with the distant sound of the ocean. He draws away from her slightly, then pulls off his shirt in that curious way men do, over his head in one swift movement. Tossing the shirt onto the bed, he stands and simply looks at her as if inviting her to pass judgment.

There’s a tight, twisting feeling deep in her chest. She’s seen him half-naked before – after all, she’d been his doctor for weeks – but she realises now that she’s never truly seen him, not like this. She reaches out her hand and presses it flat in the middle of his chest, her fingers obscuring the devil’s horns etched on his skin. It’s hard to believe that a canvass so marked by ink could feel so soft. He watched her through hooded eyes as she traces the lines drawn on his skin, exploring angels and demons and shadowed cloisters. She brushes his nipple with a fingernail and his breath catches in his throat, the sound making her stomach clench. Leaning forward, she presses a kiss to his bare shoulder. His skin tastes of salt and soap and she wants nothing more than to peel away every scrap of her clothing and feel his solid warmth against every inch of her.

She barely has time to finish the thought before her shirt is being pulled upwards, then gently over her head. Maximum effect with minimum effort, and she suspects that he unwraps his birthday presents in the same meticulous fashion. He smoothes her hair back from her forehead, her shirt falling unheeded from his hand to the floor as he studies her, the blatant appreciation gleaming in his eyes both a balm to her confidence and a reminder that Michael Scofield is a very dangerous man.

Perhaps he sees a sudden uncertainty in her face, perhaps he simply feels the same impatience that is making her skin prickle. Whatever the reason, he gives her a gentle smile, then takes her hand in his. “Come here.”

He sits on the edge of the bed, pulls her to stand between his legs, dancing feather-light kisses across her stomach as he loosens the drawstring of her sweatpants. She closes her eyes as tendrils of warmth spread through the pit of her stomach, dancing around the butterflies that have suddenly sprung into life. She has a moment of fundamental female panic when he begins to ease them down over the curve of her hips - she can barely remember what she did today before he appeared in her room, let alone what underwear she’d chosen this morning – but they appear to be cream-coloured lace. Judging by the look on Michael’s face, they more than meet with his approval.

His hands are a textbook example of dexterity, and she’s beginning to understand how he could have secretly left a paper rose on her desk when she would have sworn he’d never left her sight. It seems that she only has time to blink before her sweatpants are pooling around her feet and those clever hands are sliding up her calves, the backs of her thighs. “Your legs.”

An undignified sound of almost-ticklish pleasure bubbles up in her throat as his fingers tease the back of her knees. “What about them?”

He presses a lingering kiss to her bare hip, goosebumps rippling across her skin at the scrape of his whiskered chin. “They’re amazing.”

Her face grows warm. “They're just legs, Michael.”

“Not when I've only ever seen them in my head,” he smiles – a hot, lazy smile that has her fighting the urge to squirm in his embrace - then kisses the soft skin just below her navel. “Obviously my imagination was sorely lacking.”

Her soft laughter becomes a breathless gasp as he dips his head lower, his mouth lingering on the soft skin of her inner thigh. She clutches at his shoulders, her eyes closing once more, this time in faint disbelief. She cannot possibly be here with him like this, feeling as though she is melting from the inside out. And yet she is.

He cups her bottom in his hands, pulls her closer, then he brushes his lips over the cream lace between her thighs in a slow, deliberate caress that steals the breath from her lungs. The gentle touch of his lips grows firmer, more insistent, the heat of his mouth burning her through the damp silk. Her skin flushes, her pulse beginning to beat faster and faster – in her throat, her breasts, deep inside the hollow of her womb - the slow throb of arousal swiftly blossoming into a liquid heat that slides through her belly.

She smoothes her hands across his shoulders, then strokes his closely cropped head with trembling fingers, trying to remember how to breathe. His hair is still short but longer, she thinks hazily. Long enough to feel the brush of it against her fingers, it looks very dark against the paleness of her skin. She’s seen his hair like this once before, but that’s not a time she wants to remember. She silently hopes it’s not a bad portent, then his hands are splayed on her back, drawing her down as he lifts his head to kiss her breasts, his teeth gently biting her nipple through the thin cotton of her bra, and she no longer wants to think about anything.

She finds the presence of mind to step out of her sweatpants, leaning on him for support as she kicks away her slip-on shoes. Kissing the hollow between her breasts, he slides her bra straps down her shoulders then the bra is somehow on the floor and they’re falling backwards onto the bed.

A soft sound sings in her throat at the feel of his bare chest and stomach against hers as he gathers her in his arms and kisses her until she’s breathless and the sound of the ocean no longer masks the sound of his unsteady breathing. Her breasts feel swollen, her nipples tightening almost painfully every time they brush his chest. He slides one demin-clad thigh between hers, and the feel of him pressed against her is at once too much and not nearly enough.

“Michael,” she murmurs shakily, hooking her fingers into the waistband of his jeans. Catching his eyes with hers, she lets the heel of her palm brush the solid shape of him, then begins to fumble with the metal buttons. “These need to go.”

He looks at her, his eyes dark with hunger, his whispered reply skimming across her skin like a down feather. “I agree.” He’s not wearing a belt, which makes things much easier. He inhales sharply as she wins her battle with the buttons and slides her hand inside his dark grey boxers. He exhales with a hiss when she touches him, brushing her fingertips lightly against the dark wiry hair and hard flesh between his legs.

He arches into her touch, his eyes closing. “Sara?” The word is little more than a strangled whisper.

“Hmmm?” Kissing the tight muscle at the top of his arm, she curls her hand around him, reveling in the feel of him – all smooth skin and rigid heat – pressing into her palm. So beautiful, she thinks. She’s spent too long looking at men’s bodies with the detached eyes of a doctor. To be able to lay her hands on him and luxuriate in the most primal of details – the smell of his desire, the texture of his skin – is something she’d never thought she’d need this much.

He opens his eyes to give her a look of such desperate supplication that her heart clenches. “Doctors aren’t supposed to try to kill their patients.”

Her whole body is trembling, but she manages a smile. “You’re not my patient any more.”

He mutters something that sounds suspiciously like, “Thank God for that,” then they’re both pulling off his jeans and his sneakers – she finds herself trying to catch a glimpse of his toes - in a flurry of hands and he’s pushing her gently back onto the bed. She barely has time to catch her breath before he’s slipping her underpants down and off and then there’s nothing between the heat of his flesh and hers and he’s pulling her up against him in a long, slow slide of bare skin that makes her whole body clench with a shock of anticipation.

His face wears the same look of shock. “Oh, Sara.” Touching her with hands that aren’t quite steady, he kisses her slowly and deeply, his lips shaping themselves to the curve of hers, his tongue tasting her mouth with a controlled hunger that curls her toes. His hand slides down her belly, then lower to cup the damp curls between her legs, one long finger teasing and stroking. A soft moan rises up in her throat as her spine arches, her hands tightening on his upper arms. This, this is too much. She wraps one leg around his, lifting her hips, wanting the silken heat of his erection against her, right there, where everything is soft and aching.

Pressing one last kiss to her swollen mouth, he gives her a lopsided smile that is both an apology and a promise, then bows his head to her breasts, giving them such thorough attention that she is soon twisting restlessly beneath him. “Michael, please -”

He kisses her throat, the rasp of his stubble making her shiver. “I’ve thought about this for too long,” he whispers against her skin. “I can’t just -”

“Yes, you can.” She rolls onto her back, pulling him with her until the weight of his body presses her into the bed. Taking his face in her hands, she kisses him just as he’d kissed her, slow and deep and filled with far too much need, cradling his slim hips between her thighs in an unspoken and unmistakable invitation. “Don’t go slow. Not this time.”

He looks at her as though she’s just given him the world, then he starts to move against her, a steady, delicious friction that swiftly becomes slick and heavy. The air in her lungs feels hot and thick, her skin stretched thin and tight, and she wants him so much she can scarcely breathe. He kisses her softly, then watches her with glowing eyes as he sinks into her, an agonizingly tender rush of flesh and heat. Her body almost flinches at the feel of him inside her, an answering ripple quivering through the muscles of his back where her fingers are clutching at demons and angels and shadows.

She wants to say a dozen different things, but all that comes out of her mouth is a soft, strangled, “Oh.”

He presses his head against her shoulder, tastes the curve of her neck. “Yeah.”

He begins to move above her – against her, inside her – with unhurried, graceful rolls of his hips, totally at odds with the tension in his arms and the ragged sound of his breath. He’s hot and hard and everything feels so good that she knows that this isn’t going to last long for either of them. She arches her back, catching his rhythm with her own, stabbing her teeth into her bottom lip as he presses himself deeper inside her. She lifts her hips to his and he makes an incoherent sound at the back of his throat, closing his eyes as a tiny frown creases his forehead.

“Are you thinking of chemical formulas?” she teases softly, and she’s amazed at how natural it feels. Amazed that she can speak when it feels as though her very bones are about to shatter.

“Yes.” The word comes out as a hiss. “And every single football statistic I can remember,” he adds in a broken mutter, his hand sliding up her thigh, under her bottom, lifting her up to him again. And again. “God, you’re beautiful.” He kisses her again with a fierceness that borders on desperation, and she wonders if he’s wanted this as long as she has.

He grips her thigh, his fingers pressing hard against her skin – she will find tiny bruises there the next day – and pulls it higher on his hip, opening her up to him. The slick drag of his body deep inside hers pulls at her blood, sparking every nerve-ending until she feels as though she is aglow with molten heat. She’s flying high on want and need and the siren’s song of heavy, aching flesh, utterly addicted to a man she is afraid she will never see again.

She kisses him, running her tongue along his perfect teeth, committing the taste of him to memory. He groans, a rough sound of pleasure, then his hands are gripping her tightly, lifting her up to him, burying himself inside her again and again until everything begins to tighten, drawing up like a bow begging to be released. Sensation streaks up the backs of her legs, rippling through her belly, then her flesh and blood come apart at the seams.

He kisses her, swallowing the sound of her pleasure, taking it back into himself only to give it back to her again and again, his body pinning her in place while hers shivers around him.

She lets out a shaky breath as the last aftershocks tremble and fade, feeling boneless and drained. Still buried deep inside her, he’s breathing hard, his arms braced on either side of her head, his whole body rigid with tension. His eyes are closed, his forehead damp with sweat and creased in a frown, and she suddenly feels as though he is a thousand miles away from her. She lifts her head to give him a lingering kiss, stroking his face with her fingertips, smoothing the lines from his forehead, not letting him look away from her as she wraps her legs around him a little tighter. “Just let go, Michael.”

She feels something go out of him, as though her words have released him from some self-imposed decree, then he presses himself deep inside her, whispering her name as he begins to shudder in her arms. She holds him close, her own breath still coming short, the soft pulsing of his flesh inside her echoing the thrum of his heartbeat against her breast. She presses a kiss to his damp temple as he buries his head in the crook of her neck, his breath feathering across her overheated skin, and she knows that she will never regret him.

~*~

They don’t sleep.

There’s no time, of course, but that’s not the only reason. Lying in the darkened room, the only light coming from the small bathroom, the temptation to explore each other’s skin and heart seems to be proving too seductive to resist. Tangled in cool white sheets, they begin a hesitant dance of discovery, every glance and touch and word infused with a simmering awareness of what has just passed between them. Such a normal thing to do, she thinks, then reproaches herself for doing so. There can be no normal for them. Not now. Perhaps not ever.

“How long did it take you to design these?” Gazing at the warring deities etched on his chest, she runs her hands over his flat stomach, exploring the sculptured contours of his hips and thighs. He is the most beautiful man she’s ever seen, so beautiful that it almost hurts to look at him. He has a swimmer’s body, she realises, his muscles long and wiry, broad shoulders and slim hips. He also looks achingly young, and she wonders how he survived even a week inside Fox River. She pushes the thought aside. She doesn’t want to think of Fox River. Not now.

“A while.” He’s stroking her stomach now, skimming his palm over the jut of her hipbone. “You’ve lost weight.”

“Haven’t had much appetite lately.” She gives him a wry smile. “Speaking of which, there’s some food in the mini bar fridge. Did you want something to eat?”

He brushes aside her tangled hair to bestow a lingering kiss on her shoulder. “Maybe in a little while.”

Goosebumps rise up on the nape of her neck. The skin all over her body is still tingling; she suspects she will feel the whisker burn on her breasts for a few days to come. “How about a beer?”

He shoots her a grin that is pure college boy. “Definitely.”

Shaking her head, she waves her hand towards the mini bar. “Help yourself,” she says airily. She looks away as he pulls on his boxer shorts, feeling strangely shy – why, she has no idea, given the things they’ve just done to each other – but her eyes follow him as he strolls across the room, her gaze lingering on his right shoulder blade. The burn he sustained at Fox River – and she realises now that she still doesn’t know how it happened, and perhaps she never will – is still visible but appears to be healing well, as least from what she can see. Perhaps the other doctor he saw tended to it, she thinks, and is suddenly stung by a feeling of possessiveness she knows she has no right to feel.

He crouches in front of the small refrigerator, his eyes widening at the crowded conditions – too late she remembers how carelessly she'd shoved her dinner leftovers inside – then comes up with a bottle of imported Mexican beer. He smiles at her over his shoulder. “I bet these aren’t twenty-five cents.”

She grins, both at the memory he’s deliberately invoked and the thought that you could buy anything from a hotel mini bar for twenty-five cents. “Try six bucks.”

“I’ll make sure I appreciate it.” He twists off the cap as he walks across the room, dangling the bottle from his fingertips as he lifts a questioning eyebrow. “You’re not having one?”

“I don’t drink.”

He looks at the empty wineglass sitting on the shelf above the bar fridge, then down at her. “Okay.”

She feels her face grow warm, a dull flush of heat that creeps up her neck. She’s always been a lousy poker player. She says nothing as he slides back into bed beside her, and he gives her a quizzical look. “What's wrong?”

She shakes her head, wishing – not for the first time – that he wasn’t quite so intuitive. “Nothing.”

“Come on.” He nudges her bare foot with his. “You owe me at least one secret.”

She tugs the sheet a little higher, sucking in a sharp breath as the sheets brush against whisker-scraped nipples. “May I ask you something first?”

He cradles the beer bottle loosely in his linked hands. “Shoot.”

“How did you know I’d leave the door unlocked that night?”

“I didn’t.”

She blinks. “Did you have a back up plan if it had been locked?”

He hesitates long enough to make her suspect she already knows the answer, then he shrugs. “I would have thought of something.”

“That was quite a risk you took.”

A smile tugs briefly at the corner of his mouth. “I know.”

She’s not sure if she should be flattered or insulted. That he’d had put so much faith in her making the ‘right’ decision was unsettling. Had he trusted in his belief in her, or in his own ability to charm her into doing his bidding?

“Why did you do it?” he asks softly, obviously decided to take the same blunt line of questioning she’d used.

Because I couldn’t bear to see you lose someone you loved so much. Because I couldn’t bear to be the one to take your brother away from you. She presses her tongue hard against the back of her teeth, knowing that there are some truths that she cannot tell him. “I went to see my father that afternoon. He was celebrating his latest political coup.” She tries and fails to keep the bitterness from her voice. “I asked him if he’d even bothered to look at Lincoln’s file.” She looks at him. “He hadn’t.��

Michael’s expression instantly becomes smooth and unreadable, and she almost falters. “I’d been telling myself that everything you’d said about a conspiracy couldn’t possibly be true,” she says slowly, “but in that instant, I realised that it could.”

His eyebrows lift. “So you did it to annoy your father?” He manages to sound both amused and disappointed. She suspects he’s deliberately trying to lighten the mood and she wants very much to kiss him but she merely smiles and shakes her head.

“Lincoln was my patient, Michael. Not only did I have a duty of care towards him, I liked him.” She reaches up touch the side of his face gently. “And the longer you were at Fox River, the easier it was to see him through your eyes. To believe he was the good man you said he was.” He turns his head to kiss her palm, the touch of his lips warming her skin. “But to betray everything I’d sworn to uphold was unthinkable.”

His eyes look very dark in the half-light. “And yet you did.”

She swallows hard. “Yes.”

He says nothing for a moment. She can almost hear his thoughts ticking over. “You said I had no idea what you went through after the escape,” he finally says, his voice flat. “What did you mean?”

She hesitates. How can she explain to him what she still doesn’t understand herself? He’s one of the strongest people she’s ever met – how could he possibly comprehend what it was like to feel out of control of your own body and mind, as though someone else is pulling the strings.

He watches her, his eyes half-hidden in the shadowy darkness, then his hand finds hers in the tangled sheet. He squeezes it gently, the warmth of his touch traveling up to her heart. If you want me to trust you, you’ve got to return the favour. Tell me enough to make me understand. She looks at him for a long moment as her own words echo in her mind, then she takes a deep breath and starts to speak.

“You know about my time in India?”

“Yes.”

“And that I worked at Chicago General?”

“Yes.”

“Did you wonder why I had such a long break between Chicago General and Fox River?”

“I did.” He doesn’t quite meet her eyes, and she knows then that the subject of his research into her is still a sore one for both of them. “It was as though you’d fallen off the grid. I eventually assumed you’d taken a sabbatical.”

“I did, in a way.” The darkness of the room is making this easier than she feared, but every word still feels as though she has to wrench it from the depths of her chest. “I worked here and there, but nothing permanent and nothing to do with my chosen profession.” She thinks briefly of her fleeting careers involving waiting tables and working in a bookstore, then takes another deep breath. “Before that, though, I was in rehab.”

His whole body stills. He twists around to put his untouched beer on the small table beside the bed, then turns back to her. “Alcohol?”

“A little bit stronger than that.” She looks down at their linked hands; it’s easier than looking at him. “I was a rising star at Chicago General until I started giving myself morphine more often I gave it to my patients.” His hand tightens almost painfully on hers. She dares a glance at his face, but she sees no pity in his eyes, only a devastated realization. “And you know what they say – once a junkie, always a junkie.”

He swears under his breath, then cups her face in his hands, his eyes burning into hers. “Exactly what did helping me cost you, Sara?”

She can’t meet his eyes. “It doesn’t matter now,” she says. Perhaps if she says it enough times, they might both believe it.

His fingertips press a little harder against the nape of her neck, but the thumbs stroking her face are gentle. “Tell me.”

She lifts her hands, wrapping her fingers around his wrists. His pulse beats fast and strong beneath her fingertips; she doesn’t want to guess at her own heart rate. “Everything I believed in was falling apart and I couldn’t stop it.” Gently pulling his hands down, she cradles them in her lap, entwining her fingers through his. Touching him seems to make it easier to say the words she never thought she’d say, at least not to him. “I had done what I thought was right – I saved an innocent man from being killed - but that didn’t change the fact that I’d knowingly committed a felony.” She looks at him sadly. “It didn’t change the fact that I did it as much for you as I did it for Lincoln.”

He starts to speak, but she shakes her head, silently pleading for him to let her finish. She doubts she’ll have the courage to have this conversation a second time. “I left the door unlocked and went home with a bottle of morphine in my bag.” He inhales sharply, and she lets go of his hands, suddenly needs a little space. “The first thing I did when I got there was to pour myself a double scotch.” She leans back on the pillows piled behind them and stares at the ceiling, her voice sounding as though it was coming from far away. “I sat on the couch and I sipped my first alcoholic drink in almost three years and I stared at that little bottle of morphine for what felt like hours.”

The silence in the room grows heavy, expectant, and she knows without seeing his face that he is watching her very carefully. “I rang my father’s cell phone. Don’t ask me why, I don’t know. Perhaps I just needed to give both of us another chance to belittle each other.” She tries to smile but fails. “It went straight through to his voicemail. It was only when I heard the sound of his voice that I realised the person I really wanted to talk to was you.” Her voice breaks a little, but she keeps going, spurred on by months of grief and resentment. “And you were gone.”

He flinches as though she’s just punched him in the gut. “Sara-”

“Everything just hurt so much.” She closes her eyes tightly, shutting out his beautiful, devastated face. “I’d worked so hard to get my life back on track. All my grand plans to make a difference at Fox River, to change people’s lives for the better. And I threw it away just like that.” She snaps her fingers as she talks. “The double scotch didn’t make the pain go away. Neither did the next one or the one after that.” Screwing up her last bit of courage, she turns to him, her voice vibrating with the effort of forcing out the words. “And then I stopped just looking at the morphine, because I knew that it could make any amount of pain disappear.” He doesn’t speak, and she has the feeling that they’re both holding their breath. “But I miscalculated.”

His tanned face pales. “What do you mean?”

She looks at him, a fading ember of her well-nurtured anger flickering into life. For an escaped prisoner who was also an acknowledged genius, he could be somewhat naive. “I’d been clean for almost three years, Michael, and I’d just downed three double scotches. What do you think I mean?”

He says nothing and she’s glad. She can literally feel the tension humming through his body; she’s not sure she wants to know exactly what he’s thinking. “The police found me when they came to my house with a warrant to enter.” She glances at him, but he’s staring at nothing, his expression blank and smooth. “I found out later they’d called me in as a possible D.O.A.”

When he finally speaks, his voice is flat. “You almost died.” It’s an accusation, not a question, and she knows that it’s not leveled at her.

“A bit closer than almost. If they’d broken down my door fifteen minutes later…” She doesn’t bother finishing the sentence. They both know how it would have ended.

He shakes his head, his expression almost bewildered. “I didn’t know -”

“How could you have known?” Her voice sounds very loud in the quiet room. “And what would you have done, Michael? Ridden in on your white horse and saved me from myself? Forfeited your brother’s life for mine?”

He looks stricken, and she knows she’s just hit his Achilles heel. Faced with the spectre of the choice she’s quite sure they’re both glad he never had to make, she retreats into her story. Somehow that feels safer than trying to negotiate the new emotional minefield she’s just unearthed. “I was in hospital for ten days. When I was discharged, my father had me brought to his new office and basically told me that he’d applied the right amount of pressure and had saved my skin and my job and he was packing me off to rehab.”

He nods slowly, then frowns. “Why didn’t you tell Veronica?”

He sounds faintly injured, and a tiny spark of anger flickers once more. Because it was none of her business, she thinks, but she merely says, “It was over and done with. There was no point.”

He stares at the ceiling for a long moment. When he speaks, his voice is so quiet she has to strain to hear him. “It was my fault.”

She swallows hard. A few days ago, hearing him say those words would have given her a great deal of satisfaction. Now, they simply make her want to weep. She rolls over onto her side to face him, her head searching for his amidst the sheets. “You didn’t put that needle in my arm.”

“I may as well have.” He tangles his fingers with hers, but he won’t – can’t? – look at her. “I should never have put you in that position.”

“No, you shouldn’t have, but would you have preferred Lincoln to have been executed?”

He puts his other hand over his eyes, and she slides her arm around his neck, breathing in the spicy scent of his skin. “What’s done is done, Michael.” She kisses his jaw, feeling the scrape of his whiskers against her lips. “Lincoln is alive, and so am I.”

He’s still rigid in her arms, his voice thick with dismay. “Both of you, my fault.”

“What?”

"It was my fault Lincoln was in that parking garage the night he was arrested,” he whispers, his voice once again so soft she can hardly hear him.

She frowns, confused. “How could it possibly have been your fault?”

“The only reason he was there was to pay off a debt. A debt he owed solely because of me.”

“I don’t understand.”

“He’d borrowed money after our mother died. Made me believe that it was from her insurance, that we’d both been given a share.” His voice shakes. “He lied. It was all for me, so that I could make something of my life. So that I didn’t follow him down the path he’d taken.” He looks at her, and she’s shocked to see his eyes are glittering with tears. “He gave up everything so that I could have something better, and I didn’t find out until it was too late.”

Her first thought is that she’d been right to save Lincoln Burrows. Her second is that his younger brother is still facing far too many monsters on his own.

“You saved him, Michael.” She leans across and kisses him with soft insistence until his lips part beneath hers. “You’ve saved both of us,” she whispers against his mouth, running her fingers through his cropped hair, willing him to believe what she now knows to be true.

“I never wanted to involve you.” He lifts his hands to touch her face, his eyes searching hers, and she wishes she knew what he was looking for. “I never, ever imagined -” he breaks off, then exhales shakily. “I tried so hard to keep you safe.”

“I know.” She does, finally. She can feel the poison inside her breaking free, the numbness around her heart becoming a bittersweet ache, and she knows at last that she can still feel something other than anger. “I believe you, Michael.”

He kisses her then, his mouth clinging to hers with gentle desperation. His hands slide beneath the sheet, stroking her breasts, the damp warmth between her thighs, his palms smoothing over the curve of her bottom. “Thank you,” he whispers unevenly, and those two small words almost break her heart.

Her eyes hot with the tears she’s determined not to shed, she crawls on top of him, kissing his mouth, his throat, his chest, the taste of him burning on her tongue. Her hands – his hands too, she thinks – are tugging at the waistband of his boxers, pushing them down his legs, then the thick length of him is hot against her, rubbing, teasing. She gives him a shaky smile as she leans over him, letting her breasts and her unbound hair brush his chest. His answering smile is both hopeful and hesitant and touches every secret place in her heart and mind. Lowering her mouth to his, she shifts her hips and takes him deep inside her, his groan of pleasure washing across her skin like a warm breeze.

It’s slower this time, slower and sweeter and tinged with sadness. She wants so much for it to never end – the feel of him buried inside her, the sound of her name on his lips as he mutters against her skin, the heat of his mouth on her breasts – but it’s over too soon, her body going up in flames, her soft cry mingling with his as he arches beneath her, his fingers digging painfully into her hips as he loses himself.

When it’s over, she wraps her arms around him, holding him tightly as he buries her face in the damp crook of her neck. I love you, she tells him silently, and wonders if she will ever have the courage to say the words out loud.

~*~

When she opens her eyes again, she’s alone in the bed. Michael is dressed and standing by the open door to the balcony, the shape of him barely outlined in the predawn light. Although she doesn’t make a sound, he turns to look at her. “I have to go.”

His voice is dark and heavy, and although she cannot see his eyes, she suspects his thoughts are the same. “I know,” she whispers, her mouth feeling dry and sour. She grabs her clothes from the floor beside the bed – not letting herself think about how they had ended up there – and quickly slips from the warm sheets that still smell of him. As much as she craves to wrap him in her arms and hold him safe, she doesn’t go to him. Instead, she gives him a small smile and heads for the bathroom, shutting the door behind her with something that might be relief but feels more like despair. She takes a deep breath and attempts to smooth her bristling nerves with the mindless tasks of using the toilet and washing her hands and hastily cleaning her teeth and pulling on her clothes.

It doesn’t work. Neither does splashing her face with several handfuls of cold water, or staring at her pale reflection in the mirror. The hazel eyes that stare back at her offer no answers, no reassuring platitudes. Repressing the urge to pull a face at her silent doppelganger, she dries her face, runs her hands through her hair, then wrenches open the door.

She stands in the bathroom doorway for a moment and gazes across the room, giving herself a moment to simply look at him. There's no way of knowing when - or if - she will see him again. The thought makes her feel faintly sick. She gives herself a mental shake, then walks silently across the room, touching his shoulder lightly when she reaches his side. “What happens now?

He doesn’t turn around. “There’s a boat waiting for me.”

“Not right now,” she runs her hand across the breadth of his shoulders, feeling the warmth of his skin through his sweatshirt, and he leans back into her touch. “I mean with Lincoln's case.”

He tilts his head to look at her, his eyes dancing with private amusement, and she’s suddenly reminded of the first time they met. I’m Michael, by the way. “You’re safer not knowing, trust me.”

“Safer, maybe. Not happier, though.” So many of her questions are still unanswered, but she knows better than to ask. Resting her chin on his shoulder, she slides her arms around his waist. Perhaps this conversation will be less painful if she doesn’t have to look at him. “What can I do? Do you need money? I could-”

He shakes his head. “Money isn’t a problem.”

“Swiss bank account?” She’s only half joking.

He glances back at her, his wide mouth curving in a smirk. “When this is all over, remind me to tell you the story of D.B. Cooper.” She files that little tidbit away for future consideration as he turns to face her, running his hands slowly up her arms to rest on her shoulders.

“Are you any closer to uncovering the - ” even though she knows that’s what this is, she can’t say conspiracy, it’s just makes everything seem so ludicrously surreal, “the truth?”

“We’ve made a few powerful allies lately.” He looks vaguely pleased with himself, and she can’t help smiling. “Everything’s starting to unravel,” he adds, lifting his hand to touch her face, “piece by piece.”

“My father.” The word sticks in her throat a little, but she has to know. “How deeply is he involved in this?”

“He’s an ambitious man who wasn’t strong enough to resist an easy ride.” He rest his warm hand in the crook of her neck, his thumb idly stroking her collarbone. “I doubt he realised what he was getting himself into.”

She doesn’t know if he’s telling her the truth or simply telling her what she wants to hear, but for once she doesn’t care. His first instinct is to protect her and as infuriating as that may be, it only confirms everything she’s come to believe about him.

She puts her hands on his chest, her fingers toying with the drawstring of his hooded shirt. “You once asked me to wait for you.”

His eyes darken. “I know.” He’s so close that she can see the green flecks in his irises and smell the mint of his breath. He’s used her toothpaste, she realises, and the thought gives her a foolish little glow.

“Do you still mean it?"

His face tightens. “I can’t ask that of you.”

She shifts closer, letting her thigh brush against his. “Do you still mean it?”

His tanned throat works as he swallows hard. “Yes.”

Something inside her blossoms into life. It takes her a moment to recognize it as hope. “Would you do something for me in return, Michael?”

He’s watching her the same way he’d watched her that day in the infirmary – as though he’d just made some wonderfully unexpected discovery. “Anything.”

Her chest feels tight and as hollow as a drum. “Stay alive for me?”

His smile lights up his eyes. “I’ll do my best.” He cups her face in his hands, his smile fading, his eyes burning into hers. “This isn’t goodbye, Sara.”

“It was Max,” she hears herself say.

He blinks. “What?”

“The dog we had when I was a child.” She gives him a shaky smile. “His name was Max.” She waits to see his slow grin, then kisses him softly. “Maybe there are still a few secrets for you to discover.” She presses her forehead against his. “When this is all over.”

“I’m counting on it.” He lets out a long breath, then tilts his head back to look at her. His eyes are glittering. “Promise me you’ll be careful.”

Her heart feels as though it's splintering in two, but she has to fight the absurd urge to chuckle. “I think that’s my line.”

“Promise me.” His hands are on her shoulders now, his fingers pressing hard into her flesh as he stares at her, his voice hardening as he repeats the words. “Promise me that you’ll be careful.”

“I promise.” She catches his hand in hers, presses it over her heart, the warmth of his palm soaking through her thin t-shirt. “But Michael, if something happens, if this is all we have-”

“Have a little faith,” he murmurs, then he kisses her, his mouth warm and gentle. “This isn’t goodbye,” he says again, his voice not quite steady. He presses one last kiss against her forehead, his hands cradling her face, then he pulls away. “I have to go.”

She steps back, her hands dropping to her sides, letting him go. Closing her eyes, she turns towards the sound of the sea. She counts to ten and doesn’t hear the sound of the door closing. When she’s counted to twenty, she opens her eyes and stares at the sky until the stars blur. When – she has no idea how much later - the first pale streak of daylight slices across the sky, a sudden chill plucking at her bare arms, she turns to stare at the empty room behind her.

He’s gone, of course, and yet his presence is all around her, his scent lingering on her clothes, her skin. “Have a little faith,” she whispers, finding an odd sense of comfort in the words. The sun is coming up now – she can feel the feeble warmth of it at her back – and she suddenly realises that it’s a brand new day. Vaguely wondering about the time, she walks towards the desk where she'd put her watch the night before. As she reaches for it, her hand stills, her heart doing an odd little dance as she stares at the small paper bird sitting next to her watch. It's a origami crane made from the hotel stationery and it's small and delicate and perfect. She picks it up with trembling fingers and cradles it in the palm of her hand, her thoughts stretching back to another time, another place.

And then there’s optimism. Hope. Faith.

Her heart is raw and bruised and everything hurts so much, but she suddenly finds herself smiling as she gently touches the outstretched wings of the paper bird in her hand. Because maybe it's not too late to make a difference after all.

~*~

She doesn’t bother trying to sleep. Instead she showers, packs – carefully putting the origami crane in her cosmetics case - and pounces on the morning newspapers as soon as they are delivered to her door. She briefly debates the possibility of skipping the last morning-only session of the conference, but her plane tickets are non-refundable and really, what is the point of sitting at the airport for six hours with nothing but her thoughts for company?

She goes down to the main conference room once more, where she somehow manages to appear attentive and alert, despite feeling neither of those things. They’re given two short breaks during the morning, and she takes the opportunity both times to beat a hasty retreat to her room, turning on the television to anxiously scan the news channels. Just like the morning’s newspapers, there was no mention of any new sightings of any Fox River escapees, and her whole body literally sags with relief.

Twenty minutes after the session finishes, she is standing at the front door of the hotel, her luggage at her feet, politely requesting the concierge to find her a taxi as soon as humanly possible. It is yet another glorious day – blue sky, warm breeze, smiling locals - and she has the absurd urge to pinch herself. Everything is almost too bright and colourful to be real, something she hadn’t noticed the first few days of the conference. She doesn’t have to think too hard to come up with a reason for the change in perception.

The flight to Chicago is quiet and uneventful. She speaks to no one and – apart from an overly chatty air steward – no one speaks to her. She’s glad; she doesn’t quite trust her voice or her tongue to behave themselves.

Her subtle headache threatens to become far more conspicuous as she waits in line to collect her bags, then waits in line for customs, answering the seemingly endless questions with as much enthusiasm as she can muster. No, she has nothing to declare. Yes, she’s a doctor. No, she’s not carrying any drugs with her. Yes, the weather was lovely down there. Yes, she did make love with an escaped felon, thank you for asking.

Perhaps not that last one, she thinks with more than a touch of hysteria.

Everything looks different. She’s passed through O’Hare more times than she can remember, and yet today it feels foreign. She suspects, however, that she is the only thing that has changed.

Readjusting her grip on the handle of her suitcase, she doggedly makes her way through the crowds towards the nearest taxi stand. Normally she would catch the shuttle van, but not today. She feels as though she hasn’t slept for days, and despite the low grade adrenalin that has been buzzing through her system for the last twenty-four hours, she is utterly exhausted.

Sitting in the back of the taxi, silently giving thanks for her luck in getting the only driver in the city who apparently doesn’t like making idle chit-chat, she stares out the window, seeing everything and nothing. Like the airport, the familiar streets of her neighbourhood look different, and she can’t help wondering if she’s the only one seeing things with new eyes today, wondering if Michael - amidst his schemes and plans - is also catching himself every five minutes as another memory of their night together bursts into his head.

Her apartment smells musty, as though it’s been empty for weeks rather than days. The only mail waiting for her consists of bills and junk mail, a selection that matches her mood. She puts on the kettle to make tea, and turns on CNN, keeping one eye on the screen as she pulls out teabags and sugar and checks the expiration date on the unopened carton of milk in the fridge. After the lead story involving the war on terror - as if there’s any other lead story these days, she thinks wryly - there’s a short piece on President Reynolds’ latest standings in the polls.

She frowns at the kettle, refusing to look at the television as they replay footage from a recent interview with the President. That woman’s voice always did have the affect of fingernails down a blackboard, but now, given what she knows, Sara’s not sure she can bear to look at that smiling face without wanting to hit something.

She’s spooning sugar into her mug when she hears the words Fox River, and the teaspoon clatters onto the kitchen counter. The news anchor launches into a spiel about the ongoing hunt for the Fox River escapees, then the screen fills with black and white head shots. She clutches the edge of the counter, her blood running cold – and she’d always thought that was a myth – as her eyes zero in on Michael’s mug shot.

It’s the same photo that was clipped to his medical records at Fox River, and it gives her a jolt to see it on her television screen so soon after seeing him in the flesh. Holding her breath, she stares at Michael’s face, the tight knot between her shoulder blades easing only when the news anchor announces that there have been no new leads or sightings. They’d obviously just run the story to tie in with the piece on the President, but it hits her again just how much of a risk Michael took in coming to her hotel. They may have been in another country, but thanks to the far-reaching power of the media, the world is an increasingly small place. The thought makes her feel faintly sick.

When the news team switches to another story – this time about the pilots' union threatening a strike – she grabs the remote and turns off the television. The sudden silence is a relief. One hip leaning against the kitchen counter, she drinks her tea slowly and wonders how she will find the strength to go back to Fox River tomorrow and pretend that nothing has happened. Of course, she’s spent a long time pretending a lot of things never happened; perhaps she should be used to it by now.

Her tea finished, she swings her suitcase onto her bed to start the dreary task of unpacking. Her gaze falls on the souvenir t-shirt she’d been wearing the day earlier, and the sight gives her a strange little pang just below her heart. She pulls the shirt from her suitcase, intending to throw it in the clothes hamper, then gives in to the sudden impulse to bury her nose in the soft cotton. She closes her eyes as the mingled scent of her own perfume and Michael’s skin washes over her, and a warm jolt of sensation ripples through her stomach.

She lifts her head and breathes in a lungful of non-scented air, but the butterflies in the pit of her belly refuse to be vanquished. “Damn it.” She looks at the laundry hamper for a moment, then she drops the shirt back into her open suitcase, rummaging instead for her cosmetics bag. A few minutes later she carefully refolds the t-shirt, slips Michael’s paper crane inside, then puts them both into the bottom drawer of her dresser. She’s not going to walk around with a t-shirt clutched to her face like a security blanket, but she can’t bear to wash away such a tangible reminder of him.

She doesn’t feel like eating but she does, heating up soup and making toast, too restless to settle to the task of actually cooking anything more interesting. The soup is hot and burns her tongue, and she’s glad of the simple pain. She feels distracted and disjointed, almost a stranger in her own home.

It’s still early, but she finally gives in to her exhaustion. She takes a shower – turning up the temperature of the water until it beats painfully on her skin – and stays there until it runs cold. Drying herself briskly, her hands grow still when she sees the five tiny bruises high on her left thigh. Putting her fingertips carefully on the marks, she closes her eyes, her breath suddenly coming short, her skin tingling. It’s the oddest thing, she thinks, that she could feel so numb yet have the slightest touch leave her aching with a longing that makes her whole body clench.

It takes her a long time to fall asleep. When she does, she dreams of him, dreams of walking with him on the beach, touching his hands, his mouth soft and warm as she kisses him. When she awakens, alone in her bed in Chicago, the tears on her lips taste like seawater and the distant noise of traffic sounds almost like the ocean.

~*~

After locking her car, she stands and studies the prison gates for a long moment. She looks at the stone walls and the glittering barbed wire, staring at them as though she’s never really seen them before today, and maybe she hasn’t.

Katie greets her with a broad smile. “Hey. How was the conference?”

She returns the smile as she drops her bag onto her desk. “Enlightening.”

Katie looks down at her bare forearms, then shakes her head with an audible ‘tsk’ noise. “You didn’t get much of a tan, girl.”

“Well, you know me - I’m not much for sun bathing.”

Her nurse is still shaking her head. “How many times do I have to tell you that you work too hard? If you’d taken me along, we could have had a fine old time. Did you do anything fun at all?”

She busies herself by putting her bag away in the bottom drawer of her desk. She’s not sure of Katie’s definition of fun, but she doubts it would have anything to do with how Sara spent her last night in Barbados. “A few things.”

Katie leans against the corner of the desk. “Meet any nice doctors?”

For once, Katie’s dogged determination to play matchmaker isn’t unwelcome. Anything that might distract her from the fact that Sara’s head is currently thousands of miles away is a good thing. “One or two,” Sara says carefully as she shrugs into her lab coat.

“Get their numbers?”

She frowns, scanning the top of her desk. Where the hell was her stethoscope? “They weren’t really my type.” She looks up at Katie as she finishes speaking, just in time to catch the flicker of uncertainty that crosses her colleague’s face. The memory of the last time they discussed the type of man Sara did like is still obviously as fresh in Katie’s mind as it is Sara’s. There is an awkward pause, then Katie clears her throat.

“Doctor Crossing left some case notes for you.” She points to a thin file sitting on the desk, then hands Sara her missing stethoscope. “And this was on my desk.”

“Thank you.” Still frowning, Sara looks around the room. Her office is definitely not as she’d left it. Files have been shifted and stock rearranged just enough to be noticeable. She glances into the locked cabinet beside to the newly repaired window, and her heart sinks.

“I swear, that man could make hard work out of nothing,” Katie is saying now. “He was always bustling around in here but just between you and me, he didn’t do squat.”

“Right.” Sara forces a smile and looks away from the empty space where Michael’s paper rose had once sat. “I’m guessing he moved a few things around while he was here?” she asks, taking care to keep her tone as light as possible.

“What he did was tidy up and toss stuff into the trash yesterday afternoon,” Katie replies just as casually. “I guess he thought it made him look busy.”

Sara blinks. “Oh. Right.”

Her nurse smirks. “I waited until he’d gone home then I fished them right out again.” She pulls open the top drawer of the desk. “Here you go.”

Sara looks down to find several old notebooks, a packet of her favourite mints and the paper rose. “Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it. We need a bit of colour around here.”

Colour. The word lingers in her head, and she suddenly remembers. “I almost forgot.” Sara pulls out the bottom drawer and rummages for the small plastic shopping bag she’d slipped into her handbag this morning. “I bought you something.” She hands the bag to Katie, and watches as she pulls out the sarong Sara had bought in the Saint James’ markets.

Katie holds it out in front of her for inspection, and the room is instantly brightened by dozens of vividly coloured flowers. “I love it, but you didn’t have to bring me something back,” she adds, peering at Sara over the top of the soft material.

“I wanted to.”

“I’m glad you did.” They share a smile that feels almost like the ones they used to share, then the sound of approaching footsteps has Katie looking over her shoulder. “Looks like we’ve got incoming,” she says dryly.

Two minutes later, Sara is cleaning up the badly split lip of a new inmate. He’s young and scared and she finds herself saying the soothing things she’s always said to her patients, and she can't help wondering if any of them are ever really reassured by anything she tells them.

At the end of her shift, she puts the paper rose in her handbag and takes it home, slipping it between the folds of the t-shirt to join the origami crane. She knows she will miss seeing it during the day, but the thought that there is now one less thing belonging to Michael Scofield at Fox River makes her smile.

Later that night, she opens the cupboard above the sink and pulls out the half-empty bottle of Scotch she barely remembers buying on her way home from Fox River the night of the escape. She unscrews the lid and tips it into the sink, watching the pale liquid splash against the silver metal of the plughole. She rinses out the bottle twice, and shoves it into the trash with steady hands.

No more.

~*~

Life goes on and so does she because she has no other choice, not any more. She feels helpless, like an insect caught in amber, but every morning she gets out of bed and she goes to work and she tries to do her job as best she can and all the time her heart feels as though it’s filled with lead.

On the nights she can sleep, she dreams of him. On the nights she can’t, she sits on the couch with her laptop and researches the side-effects resulting from long-term misuse of PUGNAc and tries not to fear the worst. On those nights, when she finally forces herself to abandon the couch and the laptop, she stands at the window and stares up at the stars and knows that she is desperately afraid for a man who may already be dead.

There are days – the bad days, the days when every single thing reminds her of him - when her anger returns and she hates him for making her believe that they could have more than this. On those days, she reminds herself that the Japanese origami crane is a symbol of peace and hope and long life, and she prays for all three things for both of them.

She goes through the motions of living her life, and every new day makes it more and more obvious to her that she can’t stay at Fox River. Whatever good she may have done in the past has been irrecoverably tainted, both for her and for those she serves. She may not be able to do anything to help Michael now, but maybe she can try to help herself.

All I can do every day is the next right thing.

She stops researching the side effects of PUGNAc and begins to spend her evenings reading a different type of medical website, studying FAQs, weighing up every possibility. When she finally makes her decision, she fills out an application form on-line, holding her breath as she clicks submit.

Then she waits.

She keeps getting out of bed and going to work and doing what she has to do - because she owes it to the Pope to honour her side of her father’s bargain and she owes it to herself to stay sane - and she waits. Three weeks later, she receives a telephone call that lifts her out of her stupor and into a place that actually feels a little like optimism.

Telling the Pope that she needs two days’ personal leave, she flies to New York and meets a panel of serious professionals who ask her many, many questions as to why she wants to join their organization.

“I want to get back to basics,” she tells them quietly, wishing she didn’t feel quite so outnumbered. There are five of them, and she suddenly feels very alone. “To help people who actually want my help.”

One of the men on the panel gives her what she thinks is meant to be a sympathetic smile. “Do you see your connection to the current administration as being advantageous or more of a hindrance?”

She doesn’t flinch. “I’d like to be able to say that I see it as neither, but I think we all know that would be naïve.” She glances at the other members of the panel with a calm she is far from feeling, making eye contact briefly with all of them. “The best answer I can give you is that I’ve tried to keep my family ties and my professional life separate, and I will continue to do so.”

She watches as he murmurs something to the woman next to him, and then they move on. She talks for what feels like hours, and listens for what feels like twice as long. Finally, they each shake her hand in turn and tell her they’ll be in touch.

“The usual deployment is six months,” says the woman in charge of proceedings – Doctor Jacob is her name - almost as an afterthought. “Would that be a problem for you?”

“No, not at all.” Six months, a year, whatever it takes. She’s not running away, she tells herself. She’s not. She’s simply walking in a different direction. Doing the next right thing. “I would need to give my current employer a month’s notice.”

The woman smiles at her. “You understand that should you be successful, I may not be able to give you an indication of where you will be posted until the last moment? Things happen quickly here if there’s an emergency and while we like most first missions to be planned, we can’t always guarantee it.”

“That’s okay,” Sara says, faintly surprised to find that she means it. “I would be happy to go anywhere I’m needed.”

Two days later, Doctor Jacob calls to tell her that her application has been successful, and that they will send her a contract and be in touch again soon, probably within the next six weeks. She adds that it would be a good idea if Sara spoke to her current employer about her future plans sooner rather than later, then ends the call with the cheery wish that Sara have a good evening, leaving Sara sinking into the nearest chair, feeling dazed. That night she once again dreams of sand and the sound of the sea and Michael’s hand in hers, but when she wakes, her heart isn’t quite so heavy.

When she arrives at Fox River the next morning, she heads directly for the warden’s office rather than the infirmary. The warden’s secretary is already behind her desk, reading the newspaper. “Good morning, Becky.”

Becky makes no effort to hide her obviously poor opinion of the prison’s doctor. “Doctor Tancredi,” she says coolly, her lip on the point on curling. Sara simply smiles at her. From what she’s picked up from Katie’s conversations over time, the warden’s secretary can hardly be considered an authority on observing protocol when it comes to clandestine relationships.

“Is the warden available for a few minutes? I can come back at a more convenient time if necessary.”

Becky pushes aside the morning’s newspaper with dramatic reluctance, then reaches for the phone. “I’ll check for you.”

Sara stares at the wall behind Becky, trying not to listen to her hushed telephone conversation, concentrating instead on keeping her breathing steady. A moment later, Becky gives her a smile so saccharine it makes Sara’s teeth ache. “The warden can see you now.”

“Thank you.”

Henry Pope rises to his feet as she enters his office. “What can I do for you, Doctor?”

“I won’t take up much of your time,” she says, taking the chair that he indicates with a wave of his hand. “Firstly, I’d like to apologise.”

Halfway through dropping back into his own chair, he looks up at her from beneath his eyebrows, then frowns. “For what?”

She crosses her feet at the ankles and clasps her hands together tightly in her lap. “I’m sorry that I let my father dictate to both of us.”

His expression doesn’t change, the frown still creasing his forehead. “I see.”

She takes a deep breath, then launches into the speech she has been practicing since last night. “My mistake on the night of the break out compromised the integrity of your command.” Her mouth is dry, but she pushes herself to go on. “I should never have allowed myself to be pressured into staying on against your clear wishes.”

He blinks, then his frown clears. “I see.” He hesitates, then adds a polite, “I appreciate the apology.”

“That said,” she reaches into her handbag, then slides a sealed envelope across the desk towards him, “I need to give you this.”

He picks up the envelope, but makes no attempt to open it. “What is it?”

“My resignation.”

He looks genuinely puzzled. “Why?”

She gives him a weary smile. “I think we both know I’m not doing anyone any good by being here.”

He uses his thumb to tear open the envelope, the sound of ripping paper loud in the quiet room. “What are your plans?” he asks as he begins to scan the letter.

“I’m going to be doing some volunteer work.”

He looks up at her. “As a doctor?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” He carefully refolds the letter and slips it back into its envelope, then gives her a quizzical glance. “Your health concerns- ” He breaks off, then starts again. “Are you fully recovered?”

Her pulse leaps, but she returns his gaze without flinching. “I’ll always be a recovering addict,” she says lightly, “but I’m clean and intend to stay that way.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” He rises to his feet, and she takes her cue, pushing back her chair as well. He walks around the large desk to offer her his hand, and the gesture touches her more than she would like. She hadn’t realised how much she’d missed being well-regarded by this man. “It’s been a pleasure working with you, Doctor,” he says in a gruff voice that holds more than a hint of surprise, as though he’s just now realising the truth of his words.

“Thank you.” To her own surprise, her eyes start to sting. “You were good enough to give me a second chance, and I want you to know how much I appreciate that.”

He walks her to the door of his office, then stops in his tracks, turning to her with a puzzled expression. “Do you want to know the ridiculous thing about this whole Scofield mess?”

Her next step falters clumsily. She hadn’t expected him to mention Michael’s name. Putting one hand on the door handle, she gives him what she hopes is a neutral look. “What?”

“I miss the sonofabitch.” He shakes his head. “How crazy is that?”

She smiles at him, suddenly not caring if she appears neutral or not. She knows how Michael felt about the warden, and it pleases her to know that Henry Pope misses him. “Not so crazy.”

She’s almost at the infirmary before she realises she’s still smiling.

~*~

“Katie, you got a minute?”

Katie shifts her armful of patient files from one hip to the other. “Sure.”

She closes the door of her office, then turns to the woman who was responsible for saving her life. “I wanted to tell you before you heard it from anyone else.” Katie lifts her eyebrows and purses her lips, as if expecting to hear a particularly juicy piece of gossip, and Sara hastily continues, “I’ve just handed in my resignation. I’ll be leaving a month from today.”

Her nurse’s face falls. “Damn.” She frowns, her expression becoming even more crestfallen. “Don’t tell me they’re gonna put that idiot locum in here full-time.”

“You don’t like him?”

Katie scowls. “If I have to work another day with that man, they’re gonna haul my ass off for murder.”

Sara hides a smile. “Maybe I could convince the Pope to look for a more suitable permanent replacement?”

“That would be good.”

They look at each other for a moment, then Sara reaches out and takes half the files from Katie’s arms. “Listen, uh, you want to grab a coffee after work?”

The other woman hesitates, then nods, a slow grin spreading across her face. “That would be good.”

~*~

Two days later, Brad Bellick appears in her doorway. He’s alone, his expression filled with the disdain he seems to reserve solely for her, and she wonders fleetingly what happened to the seemingly gentle man who once asked her out to dinner. Perhaps he never existed at all. “I hear you’re leaving us.”

She marks off another few items on the drug cabinet inventory sheet. “I’m afraid so.”

“Now that your work here is done.”

She says nothing. Perhaps if she ignores him long enough, he’ll get the hint. Then again, she thinks sourly, this is Bellick.

“I also hear there was a new sighting of your little pet Scofield last night, down Mexico way, as they say.”

Her heartbeat staggers, but she does her best to give him an unimpressed stare. “Is that right?”

“I’m surprised you hadn’t heard about it yourself.”

Her grip on her pen tightens. “Actually, I’ve been a bit too busy to keep up with prison gossip lately.”

He smirks. “Or maybe you don’t have to keep up because you already know all about it.”

She clicks the top of her pen a few times, indulging briefly in the very pleasant daydream of using it as a tongue depressor on him. It was a bad idea, but it would almost be worth it. “Is there a point to this conversation?”

He moves closer, his narrowed gaze boring into her face. “I know you helped Scofield.” He moves closer still, his shuffling steps closing the distance between them. “The Pope may have been fooled by your big-eyed innocent little Miss Muffet act, but I know a liar when I smell one.” He inhales, his eyes narrowing. “And you, Doctor Tancredi, stink to high heaven.”

“Really.” She slips her paperwork inside its usual folder, then snaps the folder shut. “As entertaining as this conversation is, I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave.” She glances pointedly at the clock. “I have patients to see.”

He doesn’t move. “Must be nice, having a Daddy who can solve all your problems for you. Dragging you up out of the gutter every time you fall off the wagon.”

She sucks in a breath, anger sharpening her tongue. “I may have been down in the gutter, Officer Bellick, but as I recall, you were right there with me.” She looks at him. “Tell me something - do you drink club soda at those strip clubs you visit every night, or is your sponsor working overtime these days?”

His jaw drops. She smiles. “If you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.”

His expression hardens, but he begins to walk slowly towards the open door of her office. “The truth’s gonna come out one day.”

She stares at him, thinking of everything she knows about his treatment of the inmates in his care. She thinks of Michael’s bloodied toes and the way Bellick spoke to him as though he was no better than a stray dog. Taking a steadying breath, she reminds herself that in four weeks’ time, she will never have to lay eyes on this man again. “I’m counting on it.”

~*~

“I thought we’d agreed that you wouldn’t pay me any more surprise visits.”

“Well, you know me. I can never resist a chance to air our dirty laundry on a whim.” Her hands are cold – the air-conditioning in her father’s office is icy - but she resists the urge to tuck them under her thighs. She doesn’t need any more help to feel like a rebellious teenager in her father’s presence. “I wanted to thank you for everything you’ve done for me. You probably won’t believe me, but I’m grateful.”

He sits back in his chair, his dark suit a perfect match for the leather upholstery. “Well, I’ve been waiting a long time to hear that from you.”

His sanctimonious tone stings, pushing her right back into their old pattern. “The thing is, though, I can’t help wishing you’d done them because you loved me.”

He stares at her, then starts shaking his head. “Unbelievable. You just can’t give anything without taking something away, can you?”

“Well, like you said, I guess we’re not that different after all.” He opens his mouth to retort, but she puts up her hand. “I'm sorry, I didn't come here to get into that again. I just wanted to let you know I’ve resigned from Fox River.”

“To do what?” He looks at her as though she’s suddenly speaking a foreign language. “Sit on your over-educated behind and collect unemployment?”

“I’m going to do some volunteer work.” He’s watching her expectantly, so she adds a reluctant, “Doctors Without Borders.”

He raises his eyebrows, his expression a picture of skepticism. “If they’ll have you.”

“They’ve already accepted my application,” she shoots back calmly. “I should receive my first posting in a month’s time.”

He looks taken aback, an almost vulnerable expression crossing his face, and for a moment she thinks she recognises the man he once was. Then he scowls, and the illusion is gone. “So you’re going to Africa or India or god knows where? You’d just be swapping one hellhole for another and for what? Be eaten alive by mosquitoes and have to crap in a hole in the ground?”

“It’s nothing I haven’t done before.”

“You were a lot younger then.”

“Well, I’m older and wiser now.” She looks at him sadly. “About a lot of things.”

He shakes his head, then picks up his fountain pen to scribble something on the pad in front of him. “You know you won’t be able to slip under the radar this time. I gave in on the whole Barbados thing, but this is something else. Like it or not, you will be seen as a representative of this country and this administration.”

She feels her mouth thin into a mulish line at the thought. “They’re a non-government organisation,” she says carefully, “and I don’t want a babysitter.”

“It doesn’t matter if you want one or not,” he says flatly. “Damn it, Sara, you’re the daughter of the Vice President of the United States. Start acting like it.”

She glares at him, the urge to fire back a sharp retort almost burning a hole in her tongue. But she bites back the impulse, telling herself that this is not who she is, not anymore. “Fine. Do whatever you have to do.”

They sit in silence for a long moment. “What will you do for money?” he finally says, his brow furrowing with concern she can almost believe is just for her.

“I’ll be paid, but thank you for asking.” She gets to her feet, walks around his desk, then bends down to brush his cheek with her lips. She can’t remember the last time she kissed him.

His expression softens, and she feels the sudden urge to put her arms around him, but she simply puts her hand on his shoulder as he says, “Will you let my secretary know the details as soon as you know them?” He nods towards his notepad. “So the arrangements can be made.”

His secretary, she thinks dourly. “Sure.” Dropping her hand, she straightens and gives him a smile she suspects looks as forced as it feels. “Goodbye, Dad.”

~*~

Lincoln’s son is to be tried as a minor, thanks to an exhaustive appeals process by his lawyer. Sara has been following the case as closely as she can bear; it’s both a distraction from and a reminder of Michael’s current precarious status as a free man. Two weeks before she is due to take up her first overseas posting, she calls Veronica Donovan’s cell phone from a pay phone nowhere near her home. She waits anxiously as the phone rings at the other end, having no way of knowing if this number is still current – then she hears Veronica’s familiar voice. “Hello?”

“Hi. It’s Sara.” She hesitates, then adds a hasty, “Tancredi,” as if Veronica receives calls from nervous-sounding women called Sara all the time.

“Hey, how are you?”

“I’m fine.” She stares through the smeared glass of the phone booth at the passing traffic. She doesn’t want to get into an in-depth conversation, at least not about herself. “I read the news about L.J.’s trial. Congratulations.”

Veronica sighs. “Don’t congratulate me – there’s a long road ahead.”

“How is he?”

“As well as can be expected with a double homicide rap hanging over his head and his only surviving family being hunted down like dogs.”

Sara closes her eyes, feeling an echo of the other woman’s anger reverberating along her own bones. “I’m leaving town for a while.”

Veronica’s reply is swift and decisive. “We should meet before you go.”

It’s not a request, but Sara is more than happy to comply. This woman is her only link with Michael and as tenuous as that link may be at the moment, she can’t bear to walk away without making contact one last time. She didn’t simply ring Veronica to talk about LJ, and they both know it. “Where?”

“Do you remember where we met last time?”

“How could I forget?” Sara asks dryly. Being ambushed – even by an ally - in broad daylight does tend to stick in one’s memory.

The next day, she chooses to wait in the same booth she’d chosen on her previous visit to this coffee shop. Sadly, the coffee doesn’t seem to have improved; she eventually pushes it to one side and plays with the sugar packets until she sees Veronica climbing out of a non-descript sedan that’s seen better days.

The other woman looks tired and drawn, but she manages to give Sara a bright smile. “Hi.”

“It’s nice to see you,” Sara says, and is pleasantly surprised to find that it’s true.

Veronica slides into the other side of the booth. She doesn’t bother taking off her coat. Her hair is longer now, her casual clothes still immaculate but a far cry from the suits Sara remembers. “How are you?”

Sara smiles. “Better.” It’s another truth, but one that’s less of a surprise.

“I’m glad.”

“Do you want coffee?” Sara looks at her almost full cup. “I should warn you, though, it’s pretty nasty.”

Veronica purses her lips, then shakes her head. “I’m good.” She puts her elbows on the table, her gaze searching Sara’s face. “You said you were leaving town?”

“Yes. Doctors Without Borders have accepted my application to work with them.”

“That’s great. Where are you going?”

“I should find out in the next few days.” Sara offers her a rueful smile. “Hopefully.”

Veronica nods slowly, as if processing the information, then asks, “Will you check in now and then?”

Sara hesitates as she tries to evaluate the logistics of her as yet unknown future living situation. “If I can.”

“Good.” Veronica gives her an odd look, one that is part amusement, part resentment. “One of my former clients has expressed a hope that you might keep in touch.”

Sara flushes, a rush of heat skimming up the back of her neck and warming her face. “Right.” Conscious of the sudden acceleration of her pulse, she leans closer, lowering her voice to a whisper. “How are they?”

“Taking the phrase ‘living on the edge’ to a new level, but they’re okay.” Veronica presses her lips into a thin line. “They’re still alive, and that’s the main thing.” After digging around in her oversized handbag for a moment, she pulls out a pen and a business card. She scribbles on the back of the card, then slides it across the table. “Use this cell number or this email address to reach me. They’re both secure.” Her face hardens. “Something I’ve learned in the last year is to be prepared for anything.”

“Thank you.” Sara slips the card into the inside pocket of her coat, then looks at the woman who has already been through so much in her quest to save the people she loves. “Maybe by the next time I see you, this will all be over.”

Veronica tries to smile, but doesn’t quite manage the task. “Maybe.”

On impulse, Sara reaches across the table, taking Veronica’s hand in hers. “Good luck,” she says softly, squeezing the cold fingers with their bitten nails. “Be careful.”

Veronica smiles wryly, and Sara knows she recognizes her own words from their last conversation here. “Any message you’d like me to pass on?”

“Yes.” Sara takes a deep breath, then gives the other woman a grin that’s an odd match for the tears she suddenly feels brimming in her eyes. “Tell him he owes me six bucks for the beer.”

~*~

Luanda is not, as her father predicted, hell on earth. From the air, the water of the bay is blue and clear, the sand glaringly white. It’s beautiful, but she’s almost too overwhelmed by nerves to appreciate it. She’s been second guessing herself for so long that it’s hard to know when to stop, hard to remember that she used to do this sort of thing without blinking an eye.

On the ground, it’s dry and hot. She glances at her new constant companion, a burly Secret Service agent by the name of Joseph Armenta, who is surveying their surroundings through narrowed eyes. “Not quite what you expected?”

He gives her a look that makes her feel as though he has already taken her measure and stowed the information away for future reference, then slides on the darkest sunglasses she’s ever seen. “I make a point of expecting everything, ma’am.”

Okay. “How’s your Portuguese?” she asks as she discreetly acknowledges a teenaged boy carrying a small sign that says Médecins Sans Frontières.

Joseph flashes a grin filled with startling white teeth as the blended sounds of several different tongues waft around them. “Perfeito.”

The trip to the MSF compound is a bumpy and hot one, and she’s already tiring of the shadow at her shoulder. It could have been worse – he’s pleasant enough and not entirely hard on the eyes with his black hair and olive skin – but she feels her spine stiffen every time she remembers his presence. Once they arrive, they’re taken to the clinic where she is introduced to the other members of the medical staff, who are friendly and numerous and she is soon struggling to remember all their names. The American members of the team gaze at her with an avid speculation she knows only too well, and she has to remind herself that she’s had years of practice at being Frank Tancredi’s daughter and she can do this, she can make this work. Having Joseph Armenta trailing her twenty-four hours a day is going to be a challenge, but if that means she is able to be here, then so be it.

She’s shown the accommodation – small wooden share houses that sleep two people to a room – and the makeshift bar (“The bar is usually the second thing built, right after the latrine,” her laconic guide tells her) and, of course, the latrine in question. The first stumbling block comes five minutes later, when Joseph quietly insists that arrangements be changed, as it is not possible for Doctor Tancredi to share a room. Sara spends several minutes gaining a new respect for the word mortified, but there is no way around it and it’s done almost before she has a chance to apologise for causing an inconvenience.

The rest of the day is a blur of faces and hand shaking and filling out forms. By the time she’s alone in her room that evening – and she can’t help but be secretly grateful that she is alone – her head is spinning. The bed is narrow and she has the sudden sense of being away at camp, but she feels better than she has for a long time. It’s not a perfect solution but it feels right and, for now, that’s good enough.

Over the next week, it becomes increasingly difficult to remember she’s ever worked anywhere else. Finding herself in the middle of a cholera epidemic means that there’s very little time for introspection or navel-gazing – at least during the day - and she’s glad. She might think of Michael every time she needs to administer an injection, but every day it gets easier to bury those thoughts underneath an increasing feeling of anger directed squarely at the imbalance of the universe. They lose two lives for every one they save, and it’s difficult not to give into the type of despair that only comes with the knowledge that this didn’t have to happen.

The presence of her official babysitter grates on her for the first day or two, then she becomes too busy to care. By the end of the first week, they have reached a cautious understanding – he stays outside the cholera tents and the clinic when she’s on duty and she stops trying to give him the slip every other day - and she can’t deny that she could have been saddled with worse. Several of the nurses are only too happy to press him into service – after all, to them he is simply standing around with nothing to do - and Sara has to suppress a smile more than once at the sight of him stoically carrying buckets of clean water. She knows he prides himself on being prepared for anything, but she doubts he was prepared for the demands on a healthy male with a strong back in a place like this.

Her days are hectic but the nights are a different story. When she’s not rostered on the evening shift, she spends her time reading case notes and the occasional borrowed paperback. She avoids the bar as much as possible, more to escape the undeniable fact that she is a newly arrived single female rather than her own demons. She’s felt the subtle – and the less-than subtle - interest from a few of her male colleagues on several occasions, something she definitely doesn’t want or need.

With nothing but week-old newspapers and her own thoughts for company, she actually encourages Katie to email her dreadful jokes and chain letters, something she thought she’d never do. Some nights, after she’s made it quite clear to Joseph that she needs a moment alone, she emails Veronica Donovan. She writes cautious details of her new life and makes no mention of their mutual acquaintances, always conscious of the fact that there is every chance Veronica won’t be the only one reading. She deletes every email after it’s been read or sent and changes the password to her webmail constantly. She has grown to like Joseph, but she never lets herself forget who employs him.

Veronica’s replies are just as guarded and contain little to give her hope or cause distress. No news is supposed to be good news, but Sara has grown increasing skeptical of that particular cliché’s basis in truth, because no news simple makes her sick at heart. She is not an overly religious person, but she finds herself whispering a pleading mantra every night when she’s alone in her room. 

Please be safe.

She’s been in Luanda for three months – something that shocks her when she realises - when it happens. After the evening meal, she finds an available laptop and takes it to the small communal break room to check her email. There’s a message in her inbox she’d be tempted to delete as spam if she were at home; the sender’s username is unfamiliar and there’s no subject heading. But she’s not at home and every new email is a distraction, if only for a few minutes, so she clicks on it and everything around her seems to shift and shake because it’s from Michael.

It’s started. TS alive and kicking and talking up a storm. Stay there and stay safe. Owe you six bucks for beer.

She smiles, then she starts to laugh softly, tears blurring the words on the screen. She knows she should be confused as to how the hell she can be laughing and still feel as though her heart is being ripped out, but it’s Michael and she knows now that’s the way it will always be with him.

Her shadow is drinking coffee at the other end of the long table. He looks over at her, concern etched on his face. “Are you all right, ma’am?”

“I’m fine, Joseph,” she says, laughter fizzing up in her throat like imported champagne as she clicks delete. “I’m totally fine.”

~*~

It’s another two weeks before anything hits the newspapers, and then it doesn’t stop, becoming an avalanche of biblical proportions. She snatches at the scraps of news as quickly as she can, reading news feeds from around the world whenever the satellite link will allow, scarcely able to believe what she’s seeing can be real. The exhumation of President Mills’ body, the removal of President Reynolds from office, the living, breathing Terrance Steadman paraded for the whole world to see. It’s the biggest scandal to ever hit an administration, and the resulting media frenzy is something to behold, the repercussions reaching her little corner of the world a lot sooner than she would have liked.

When Joseph unexpectedly materializes at her elbow in the main tent, Sara shoots him a quick glance, annoyed that he’s gone against their agreement that her give her some space while she’s attending to patients. Then she sees his face, his normally impassive expression replaced by something approaching urgency, and her heart sinks. “What is it?”

“You have a telephone call.” His tone clearly indicates that she is to drop whatever it is that she’s doing now.

“Sure.” Her heart pounding, she catches the gaze of the nearest nurse, then nods towards Joseph. “I’m sorry, I have to step out for a minute.”

A few minutes later, she is being directed into the communications room. She barely has time to notice that Joseph has ushered everyone else from the room before he’s handing her the satellite phone and taking up his usual position outside the door. She swallows hard, then puts the phone to her ear. “Hello?”

“Sara?”

She sits up straighter in the chair. “Dad?”

“How are you?”

She glances at her watch, frowning as she realises it’s after midnight in Washington. “Uh, I’m doing really well. How are you?”

“Do you remember talking about that old saying of your mother’s? About how it’s nice to be asked to the dance, even if you don’t have the right shoes?”

He sounds odd, almost as though he’s talking to himself, and her apprehension grows. “What’s wrong, Dad?”

“I announced my resignation this morning, Sara.”

She feels the blood drain from her face. “What?”

“Caroline Reynolds is finished.” He says the name as though it’s a bad taste in his mouth, and Sara dazedly thinks that this is the first time they’ve shared a political opinion. “Her dirty little scheme has been blown wide open.”

She hesitates, not wanting to appear more informed than she should, finally settling on a vague, “So I’ve heard.”

“They wanted me to step up, Sara.” His voice is thick, almost slurred. “I could have been the next goddamned President of the United States.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“Because nothing would have made this right again,” he says unsteadily, sounding like a defeated old man. “The people need to have an unshakable trust in their leaders, and I’m not the man for that job. They deserve better than someone who was so blind that he couldn’t see what was happening right in front of him.”

She’d thought he’d never again be able to make her feel as though her heart was breaking, but she was wrong; her face is suddenly damp with tears. “I’m so sorry, Dad.”

“So am I.” He hesitates, and she holds her breath – tell me you’re sorry about Lincoln Burrows - but he merely adds, “I have to go. I just wanted – well, I just wanted to tell you myself.” He hesitates again, then finishes with a rushed, “We’ll talk later.”

And then he’s gone, leaving her with the sound of the dial tone and the feeling that the proverbial rug has been pulled out from under her. She gets to her feet and makes her way to the door, her legs feeling more than a little unsteady. “You already know, I take it?” she says to Joseph.

He nods. “Yes, ma’am.”

She pats his shoulder as she says wryly, “I think you can call me Sara now, don’t you?”

By that afternoon, it doesn’t matter how he addresses her, because he has received new orders recalling him to Washington. Sara thanks him for looking out for her, earning herself a rare smile for her trouble. As she watches the truck leave for the airport, she can’t help thinking again that, as unwanted shadows went, he could have been a whole lot worse. She suspects one or two of the nurses are thinking rather more lurid thoughts, given that they seem to be watching the departing truck with distinctly melancholy faces.

The next day, she wakes to a world in which she is no longer the Vice President’s daughter or even the Governor’s daughter. She is simply herself, despite the whispers she knows will follow her around for the rest of her life. Using his private home email address, she sends a message to her father, telling him that she is thinking of him and if he needs her, she will find a way to cut short her time here. He replies within the hour, telling her that he’s survived worse things than this – he mentions her mother twice, bringing tears to her eyes – and that she should stay where she is and that he’s proud of her. She reads the email several times, then deletes it - just as she’d deleted Michael’s - because life needs to go on, just as it always does.

One week after Frank Tancredi’s resignation, an email from Veronica informs her that Michael and Lincoln have surrendered to the authorities without any harm coming to either of them. The relief she feels – he’s alive, they’re both alive – is tempered with the knowledge that this is far from over.

Once again she feels helpless, trapped in limbo despite the very real urgency of her daily routine. When Veronica tells her that that Lincoln and Michael will face the judiciary once again and that she’s engaged the services of a renowned trial lawyer to oversee both cases, Sara feels the distance between them more keenly than she ever has before.

She buries herself in her work for the next month, refusing to give the people in her care any less than her best, but every day that passes without any news makes her feel a little more stretched, a little more empty and very, very far away. Both men are in custody awaiting trial, and she has given up hope of finding another email from Michael in her inbox. It doesn’t stop her checking every night, though, a tiny flicker of hope refusing to be extinguished.

Then, just when she’s ready to leap out of her skin with tension, Veronica sends two more emails, one day apart. The first says that all charges against Lincoln have been dropped - Sara grins at the words completely exonerated, and she can only imagine Veronica’s expression as she actually typed them – and it’s all she can do not to toss the laptop in the air with relief. Her fingers are shaking as she types her reply, and she’s almost able to believe that it’s all over.

The next day, she receives Veronica’s second email. While neither Michael or Lincoln are to be charged for the additional felony of breaking out of a correctional facility – Veronica’s email refers to this development as ‘The Powers That Be Covering Their Asses’ – the fact remains that Michael was guilty of the crime for which he was sent to Fox River. Any new charges against him may have been dropped, but that has no effect on his prior conviction. Lincoln has walked out of the court a free man, but Michael has been remanded in custody, awaiting transfer to the prison where he will serve out the rest of his term.

Later, she doesn’t remember making her way to the communications room, or asking for clearance to use the satellite phone. She apparently does both these things, because within minutes of receiving the second email, she is sitting in the communications room, the phone in her hand. She doesn’t bother to check the time difference before she dials Veronica’s cell phone number; she’s not particularly concerned with social niceties at this point.

Veronica sounds alert and completely unfazed to be called in the middle of the night. “I’ve been expecting to hear from you.”

Sara doesn’t bother making small talk; she doubts the other woman expects any. “Are you going to appeal the sentence?”

There’s a loud sigh at the other end of the phone. “Michael refused to appeal.”

“Why?”

“You know Michael.” She can almost hear Veronica’s shrug. “He likes to pay his debts,” she said simply.

A wave of nausea rolls through her stomach. She does know him and she’s is suddenly more afraid for him than she’s been in months. “Please don’t let them send him back to Fox River,” she whispers unsteadily, her fingers twisting themselves through the telephone cord.

“Don’t worry.” Veronica’s voice is hard, almost cold. “I won’t.”

One week later, while Sara is still thousands of miles away from him, Michael Scofield begins the remainder of his five year sentence at a medium security correctional institution in Pekin, Illinois. Not even the fact that she has saved dozens of lives during the past week can stop her feeling as though she has failed somehow. That night, as exhausted as she is, she lies awake in her narrow bed, scarcely aware of the heat and the noise, and lets herself cry for him for what she hopes will be the last time.

~*~

It’s another month before she manages to speak to him, and even then it takes several attempts before she can get him to the phone. She tells herself that these things are always difficult to manage, but then can’t help thinking that Michael has never let such minor details stand in his way.

“Hello?”

“Hi.”

She hears him exhale, and then he whispers one word. “Sara.”

The sound of her name on his lips seems to reach across the ocean, squeezing her heart like a vise. She closes her eyes, clutching the bulky satellite phone a little tighter. “How are you?”

“Okay.” Liar, she thinks darkly as he adds, “How are you?”

There are so many answers she could give him, but in the end she simply says, “I’m fine.” Perhaps he’s right to lie – the truth takes far too long and hurts far too much.

“I’m-” he hesitates, then goes on quickly, “I’m sorry about your father.”

“Thank you.” She keeps her eyes shut tight, feeling the warm pressure of tears behind her lids. “I’ll be back in the States in a few weeks,” she says, her voice not quite even. “What are your visiting hours?”

“No.”

She opens her eyes, confused. “No, what?”

“I don’t want you to come here.”

She feels as though he’s slapped her. “Why not?”

“You need to stay away.”

“What?” The crackle of the satellite phone making the conversation seem even more surreal. “That’s ridiculous, Michael.”

“Is it? How do you think it will look for you to be seen visiting a convicted felon with whom you have such a colourful history?”

He’s right, of course, but she really doesn’t give a damn about appearances, not anymore. “I don’t care about that.”

“I do.” His voice is so quiet she can hardly hear him. “You’ve made a clean break. You’re out of this whole mess now - I won’t let you get tangled up in it again.”

“Surely that’s my decision to make?”

“Please, Sara.” He hesitates, and she finds herself holding her breath. “Don’t make this harder than it already is.”

“Veronica says you refuse to let her mount an appeal.”

“There’s no point.”

“So, you’ve eased your guilty conscience by getting Lincoln exonerated and that’s it?” She hates the words that are coming out of her mouth, but it doesn’t make her stop throwing them at him. “It doesn’t matter what happens to you? Or to you and me?” He says nothing, and she feels her tight grip on her emotions begin to fray. “Michael?”

“Five years is a long time, Sara.”

Her breath catches in her throat. “What are you saying?”

There’s another long pause. “I’m saying that maybe you’ve already wasted too much of your life on me.”

“Don’t do this,” she shoots back, ignoring the insidious voice in the back of her head that wants to agree with him, the scratchy little whisper usually only haunts her in the middle in the night. “I’m not wasting my life here, Michael. I’m very busy doing exactly what I want to be doing.” She takes a deep breath. “I meant what I said the last time we met - did you?” Her eyes are burning. “Did you mean all those pretty words you said to me?”

His answer is little more than an unsteady sigh. “Yes.”

“Then let Veronica and Lincoln help you.” Let me help you, she begs silently.

“I’ll think about it,” he mutters, his normally smooth voice sounding rough-edged and harsh. In the background she can hear the all too familiar sounds of prison life, and the combination of the two makes her stomach lurch. “But you need to stay away from here. There are still people out there who-” he breaks off abruptly, as though he’s said more than he meant to say, but she’s not in the mood for his avoidance tactics. Not now.

“What do you mean?”

He says nothing for a long moment, then she hears him whisper, “There are still people out there who would happily use you as leverage or bait or worse, and I won’t let that happen.”

A cold rush of dread sweeps over her. Before she can react, though, he’s already talking, the urgency in his voice unmistakable. “Please understand that I need you to be safe. I need to be able to think of you as being safe and happy and far away from this place.”

“Michael-”

The background noise on his end grows louder. “I have to go. I’m sorry, Sara.”

She sits on the hard metal chair for a long time, cradling the now silent phone in her hands. Their one night together suddenly seems a long time ago, and she wonders – not for the first time – just how long hope can stay alive.

~*~

His skewed sense of moral obligation infuriates her, but she does as he asks. Despite the almost overwhelming urge to fly home, march through the front gates of Pekin and demand that he see her, she doesn’t call again. She doesn’t write or ask Veronica about him and with every passing day, she feels as though he’s slipping further away from her.

She works herself to the point of falling-into-bed-without-taking-off-her-shoes exhaustion each night and is glad, because it’s better than lying awake and thinking of Michael being locked in a cell. Her life becomes a blur of anxious faces and too-thin children, heat and dust and aching feet. Every day brings a new reason for her to feel frustrated and angry at the world at large, and sometimes she almost manages to forget the dull emptiness hollowing out her heart.

Almost.

Determined as she is not to count days or even hours, she’s genuinely shocked one morning to glance at the calendar and realise that her time in Luanda is almost over. At first she thinks she must be mistaken, but then she’s presented with a pile of forms to sign and the details for her flight back to the States, and it seems that six months really has passed. It’s time to return to the ‘real’ world, a prospect that is suddenly quite daunting.

She packs her belongings the night before she’s due to fly out, then works in the clinic right up to the time she has to leave for the airport. Not only does she know the value of every pair of willing hands, she is reluctant to give herself time to think about the people she’s leaving behind.

The last six months have been both some of the most rewarding and the most difficult of her life. If she is completely honest with herself, it had been a way to escape, a way in which she could perhaps find some measure of peace within herself. It had been both those things, but then it had become so much more.

Amidst her own sorrow, she has found joy in the most ordinary of things - the spindly legs of a baby turning into solid, healthy flesh, a father well enough to go back to his job and feed his family, a mother no longer weeping every time she spoke of her children. Not even the smell of sickness and the ever-present spectre of death can quash the realisation that she has – for the first time in a long time – made a difference.

Her last hours in the compound seem to pass without her achieving much of anything, although she knows that’s not really the case. One of the young boys carries her luggage to the truck, walking with the confident strut of someone who fought hard for the right to do so, leaving her free to make her hasty goodbyes. She finds herself clasping hands and squeezing shoulders, promising to keep in touch, promising that she will be back if she can. It’s only when she allows herself to think of how many of her patients may not be alive this time next week that she has to fight the tears, but then she’s being ushered towards the truck and it really is over.

Once on the plane, she sinks back into her seat and watches the blue water and white sand of the bay grow smaller and smaller. Ten minutes into the flight, she turns away from the window and puts her head back, closing her eyes as a growing feeling of nervous anticipation sweeps over her. However difficult the last six months might have been, what lies ahead may well prove even more of a challenge.

~*~

Pushing open the door of her apartment, Sara stares at her familiar belongings with newly appreciative eyes. Carpet. Couch. Television.

Her very own bathroom.

“Thank God,” she says fervently, dropping her luggage onto the floor with a thump, stripping off her dusty clothes even before she’s made it to the bathroom door. She’s briefly tempted to luxuriate in the shower for as long as possible, but she’s spent the last six months thinking of clean water as a precious commodity, and the thought of wasting it is suddenly abhorrent.

Five minutes later, she swipes a damp towel across the surface of the fogged mirror and studies her reflection, feeling like a stranger to her own eyes. Her hair desperately needs a trim and she still feels as though dust is trapped in every pore. She also appears to have acquired a light tan for the first time in years, which is a nice change. On the other hand, she thinks, frowning at the new freckles on her nose, maybe not.

Her apartment is dusty and smells stale, but it’s nothing a few scented candles and some fresh air won’t fix. Before she’d left, her father had suggested she sub-let the apartment, but she’d refused to consider it. The building manager had promised to keep an eye on things for her - and it wasn’t as though she had any pets or plants that needed attention - but the truth was that the thought of a stranger being in her home made her uneasy. Her father had muttered ominously about her decision, but he had finally let the issue drop.

There are no bills or junk mail waiting this time either - her mail has been redirected to her through DWB for the last six months – and that’s just fine with her. She had arranged for the utilities to be paid automatically while she was away – something else that had vexed her father - but as she’d carefully explained to him, she had no interest in coming home to a cold and dark house if she returned from Luanda earlier than expected. It had been expensive, but the fact that she hadn’t had to wrangle with the power and gas and phone companies via satellite phone had been worth it.

She doesn’t turn on the television, not wanting to hear anything about her father or the Fox River scandal, not yet. She feels the oddest sense of being caught between two worlds, struggling to readjust to being back in her normal life, and she suddenly craves a few hours just to be alone. Tomorrow will find her father still pretending he’s coping with the sudden changes in his life, while Michael will still be locked in a cell and refusing to speak to her. Tonight, she needs to look after herself.

Shunning her usual routine of heating up soup and making toast, she digs up a menu from her local Thai restaurant and orders in. When it arrives, she gives the delivery boy a tip big enough to make him grin, then closes the door firmly behind him. She turns away from the door, then reaches back to flip on the deadbolt, Michael’s words of warning still fresh in her mind. If he thought there was a good reason for her to be careful, then she would be careful. His stubborn refusal to see her might have her left her with the urge to rush to Pekin and throttle him, but he was no fool, and neither was she.

After finishing her dinner in what feels like record time – it’s only a simple chicken stir fry and rice but it’s the best thing she’s tasted in months - she finds herself in her bedroom, opening the bottom drawer of her dresser. When she pulls out the t-shirt she bought in Barbados, two small pieces of sculptured paper flutter to the floor at her feet. Reaching down, she scoops them up in her hands, her heart starting to pound as she sinks down onto the bed, an odd feeling of restlessness prickling her skin.

It’s the same feeling that’s plagued her ever since she’d stepped off the plane at O’Hare; a sense of something being missing, something being unfinished. It isn’t difficult to decipher the source. It had been easy to pretend she could do as Michael asked when she’d been so far away from him, but now she’s home and everything is different. She is different, and she is not prepared to let him keep her at arm’s length for four more goddamned years.

Four years. She swallows hard, trying to dislodge the unexpected lump in her throat. In the scheme of things, it’s not an eternity.

It just feels like one.

She gazes at the origami figures in her cupped hands for a long moment, then places them carefully onto the top of her dresser rather than back in the drawer. Like so many other things in her life, they’ve been hidden away long enough. Taking a deep breath, she gets to her feet. She could get in her car and drive to Pekin and demand that Michael see her, or she could take a more subtle approach. Either way, she thinks as she begins to look for her cell phone, she has no intention of simply sitting around, waiting for him to change his mind.

~*~

When she sees her father for the first time in six months, she feels as though she’s been kicked in the stomach. He looks ten years older, if not more, and this time she doesn’t fight the urge to put her arms around him. “Hi, Dad.”

For a few seconds, he’s stiff in her embrace, then his arms snake around her waist and he’s hugging her for what feels like the first time in years. When he pulls away, he looks embarrassed but pleased. “How was the flight home?” he asks, shutting the door behind her. He’d answered it himself, something she can’t remember him doing in recent history.

“Long and cramped.” She walks slowly into the elegantly appointed foyer of the home he bought two years after her mother died, trying not to look as out of place as she has always felt here.

He waves her into the living room. “You should have asked for an upgrade.”

Oddly reassured by the presence of his customary haranguing, it’s easy to suppress her own habitual eye-rolling. “I’ll have to remember that next time.”

“You’re planning to work with them again?”

“If I can.”

He looks as though he very much wants to say something in response to that. Thankfully, he doesn’t. “Can I get you something? Coffee? Tea?”

Having drunk several cups of herbal tea during the course of the day, she shakes her head. “I’m fine, thanks.”

“Have a seat.” She settles herself at one end of the large Chesterfield couch, while he takes the closest armchair. He studies her as she puts her handbag on the floor beside her feet, then he smiles. “You look good.”

“Thanks. I feel good.” She’d like to return the compliment, but she can’t, not when he looks so tired and drawn. “How are you?”

“Oh, you know.” He drums his fingers on the arm of his chair. “Plodding along.”

She’s quite sure her father has never plodded along in his life, but she lets it go. “I’ve heard a few things about President Graham’s sweeping reforms in the Cabinet.” It’s an understatement, given one can barely turn around without seeing yet another headline or news story involving the handover of the country’s leadership.

“He’s made some big changes, that’s for sure.” He hesitates, then adds a reluctant, “He’s a good man.”

She bites the inside of her cheek in an effort not to smile. While her father is well practiced in the art of respecting his political opponents in public, she imagines it’s rather a shock for him to find he held the same opinion in private.. “I’m glad to hear it.” She crosses her legs, trying to find a comfortable position on the overstuffed couch. “What are your plans, if you don’t mind me asking?”

His expression changes to something akin to enthusiasm. “Do you remember Jeffrey Ellis?”

She frowns, trying to place the name. “I don’t think so.”

“He and I went to Harvard together. You’re probably too young to remember, but your mother and I used to socialize with him and his wife before-” He breaks off, his face flushing, but Sara has no trouble guessing the words he hasn’t said. Before it became too embarrassing to take her out in public.

“I don’t remember him,” she prompts gently, not wanting to go down that particular memory lane, not today. “But go on.”

“He’s the CEO of Alliance,” he says, naming one of the country’s largest insurance companies. “And he’s offered me a position on the Board of Directors.”

“That’s wonderful,” she says, meaning it. “You must be pleased?”

“I’m not sure,” he replies with surprising candor. He settles back in his chair, his expression now somewhat melancholy. “It’s not what I expected to be doing this year.”

“I don’t think any of us could have expected everything that’s happened.” Another understatement, she thinks with a dull pang.

They look at each other, and Sara sees her own uncertainty reflected in his eyes. She felt closer to him when she was thousands of miles away than she does at this moment. Things have changed between them, the balance subtly shifting, and she suspects he feels as unsure as to where they stand as she does.

Seeing that he seems to be waiting for her to speak, she gathers up her courage and does just that. “Can I ask you something?” He nods, and she takes a deep breath. “Now that you know Lincoln Burrows was set up, how do you feel about what happened at Fox River?”

He frowns. “The breakout, you mean?”

Her hands are clasped tightly together in her lap; she can feel her thumbnails digging into her palms. “Yes.”

“What does it matter now?”

“I’m curious. He’s a good man.” She swallows the rest of her words – and so is his brother – because now is not the time and she suspects it might never be the time to talk to her father about Michael Scofield. “I’m not saying I condone what they did, but if you’d been in his position, wouldn’t you have done everything you could to avoid being executed for a crime you didn’t commit?”

“I agree it was a gross miscarriage of justice, but I don’t know if you could call Burrows a good man. He may not have killed Terrance Steadman, but he’s still got a rap sheet as long as my arm.”

It’s her turn to be candid. “I’d have one just as long if you hadn’t intervened all the times you did.”

He looks startled, then nods. “True.” He glances towards the large picture window where the late afternoon sun is streaming in. “In Burrows’ case, justice was eventually served, and in the end that’s all that matters.”

She stares at him. “That’s it?”

He lifts his hands, as if in defeat. “What do you want from me, Sara?”

“An apology?”

“For what? For doing my job?” His voice grows louder. “For having faith in the system?”

“No,” she shoots back, the words spilling out over her lips before she can stop them. “For not having faith in me.”

His gaze narrows. “Forgive me for being blunt, but you haven’t exactly given me many reasons to trust your judgment over the years.”

“Believe me, I’m aware of that.” The heat in her voice matches the heat in her face, but she doesn’t care. This is not about Michael or Lincoln. This is about her and her father and the hard knot of bitterness lodged deep in her heart, the dead weight she’s been carrying around for too long. “But you were so busy looking out for yourself that you didn’t even give me – or Lincoln Burrows – a chance.”

They glare at each other for a long, awkward moment, then he shakes his head. “You really don’t think much of me, do you, Sara?” Without waiting for her to speak, he goes on quickly, “I’ve been thinking a lot about the talk we had before you left.”

She feels her spine stiffen with resentment, and she tells herself she was foolish to think that anything had changed. “What about it?”

He studies her, his gaze open and direct. “Do you really believe that everything I’ve ever done for you, I did simply to protect myself?”

She swallows hard. Just as she’d discovered with Michael, the truth was often far more complicated than a lie. “Sometimes,” she finally manages to say.

A heavy frown creases his brow for several seconds, then he sighs. “I can’t deny that I never lost sight of my own interests.” He gives her a sad smile. “But it was about you too, Sara, because you were all I had left after I lost your mother. And because I love you and it makes me very angry when I see you throwing your life away.”

She stares at him, speechless.

“I made the wrong call with Burrows, I admit that.” He sounds tired, almost defeated, and she feels some of her anger drain away. “But I only did what I thought was right; what needed to be done.” He lifts one hand, then drops it. “I’m just sorry you had to be involved in this whole mess.”

She lets out a shaky breath, suddenly feeling as though she’s run a marathon. “So am I.”

He glances at his watch, and she feels a abrupt and all too familiar sense of being dismissed. “If you’ve got another appointment-” she begins, one hand reaching for her handbag.

“What?” He looks up at her, puzzled. “Oh, no – I was just - do you have plans for this evening?”

“No.” Yet another understatement, she muses wryly. She was certainly chalking them up tonight.

“Because I thought-” he hesitates, “I thought you might like to stay for dinner.”

His expression is one of determined nonchalance as he carefully studies his hands, and she feels the dead weight around her heart grow lighter. Things between them may never be any easier than this, but for now, this is enough. “That would be nice.”

~*~

Two weeks later, after a flurry of phone calls and more than a little indecision, she is on a plane once more, this time flying to San Francisco. The trip seems interminably long, something not helped by the fact that - despite her best meditative efforts - the butterflies in her stomach are refusing to lie down and die. She keeps her headphones on for the whole flight, trying to fill her mind with music as much to drown out the chatter of the couple next to her, but her stomach is still churning with nerves as the plane touches down. She’s not sure that coming here is the wisest decision she’s ever made, but it feels like the first step towards some kind of closure, and that can only be a good thing.

Slowly navigating her way through the unfamiliar airport, she finally makes it to the BART station, checks the note she scribbled while talking to Veronica a few days earlier, then boards the train that will take her to the 16th Street station. Once there, she checks Veronica’s concise directions once more, then slowly walks the two blocks to her destination. She had briefly considered donning a baseball cap along with her dark glasses, but no one gives her a second glance, and she feels wonderfully anonymous.

When she reaches Valencia Street, she pushes her sunglasses to the top of her head and takes a moment to get her bearings. The air is filled with the scent of a dozen different national cuisines, making her stomach quiver. Doing her best to ignore the human traffic brushing past her, she stands on the sidewalk and scans the street, trying to pick the café Veronica named. Eventually finding it, she takes one last moment to steel herself, then pushes open the door.

After the bright sunshine, the inside of the café is dark, and it takes a few seconds for her eyes to adjust. It only takes a few seconds more to find Lincoln, and the sight of him dressed as a civilian has her doing a double take. As she’d expected, he’s with Veronica and L.J., the three of them sitting at a round table in the corner. What she hadn’t expected, though, was that they would seem like such a normal little family it would almost hurt to look at them.

She hesitates, suddenly filled with the urge to walk straight out again, her hand tightening on the shoulder strap of her overnight bag. Then Lincoln sees her, a grin spreading across his broad face as he rises to his feet. “Over here, Doc,” he calls softly, gesturing for her to join them, and there’s no escape. When she reaches his side, he shakes her hand a little too hard. “It’s good to see you.”

His smile is infectious, and she can’t help grinning back at him. “You too.”

“Hi, Sara.” Veronica gives her a slightly awkward hug, then nods towards the teenaged boy beside her. “I don’t think you know L.J.?”

“No.” She smiles at Lincoln’s son. “It’s nice to finally meet you.”

“Hi.” L.J. dips his head shyly, and Sara tries not to notice that he has his uncle’s smile.

“Please, have a seat.” Lincoln pulls out a chair for her, and she studies him surreptitiously as she sits. His hair, while still very short, is longer than she’s ever seen it and as unexpectedly dark as Michael’s had been. He’s wearing a red shirt and black jeans, and it’s odd to see him in a colour that isn’t blue or grey.

“Freedom suits you.”

He grins. “You too.”

She looks at him, startled, not quite knowing what to say to that.

He sits down beside her. “I don’t know how to begin thanking you.”

“A double espresso would be good,” she says with a bleary smile. “I had quite an early start this morning.”

“I’ll order you one,” Veronica gives her a smile. “Not decaf, I’m guessing?”

“Definitely not, and thank you.”

“Done.” Veronica draws L.J. away with a gentle hand. “Come on, L.J., you can help me decide which piece of cake to split with your father.”

Left alone, she and Lincoln sit and look at each other for a moment, and she wonders if he feels Michael’s presence as strongly as she does. “How long will you be in town?” she finally ventures.

“Another week, maybe two.”

“Done any sightseeing?”

“A little.”

A sudden thought occurs to her, and she can’t suppress the impulse. “Doing the Alcatraz tour?”

He blinks, then starts to laugh, the unfamiliar sound taking her by surprise. “I think I’ll give that one a miss.”

Still smiling, she traces a whorl in the wooden tabletop with her fingernail, trying to think of something to say that doesn’t involve Michael. “Why did you decide to come to San Francisco?”

“Vee’s got cousins here. After everything that’s happened, she wanted to catch up with some family. And LJ still needs to decide where he wants to finish school, but I’ve told him there’s no rush.” He glances across the café to where his son is standing at the counter. “Right now we’re just taking every day as it comes.”

I know the feeling, she thinks but doesn’t say the words. There’s a sudden lull in the jazz music playing in the background, and conscious of the crowd around them, she waits for the next song to start before she says, “How’s L.J. handling it all?”

“He’s still a little ragged around the edges,” he replies with a sigh. “Having some trouble sleeping, but that’s pretty normal after you’ve been on the inside.” He runs his hand over his closely cropped hair. “Some family, huh? The three of us locked up at the same time.” A shadow crosses his face. “My mother would’ve had a fit.”

“Actually, I think she would have been very proud of all of you,” she says lightly as she studies him, noting the air of weariness he’s not quite able to disguise. “And what about you? How are you doing?”

He hesitates, giving her the impression he’s considering several different answers, but then he simply shrugs. “I’m okay.”

L.J. reappears at the table, gingerly carrying a coffee cup and saucer. “Here’s your coffee, Doctor, uh-”

“Sara’s fine.” Smiling, she takes the coffee from him. “Thanks.”

Lincoln waits until his son rejoins Veronica – she’s taken up temporary residence at a smaller table nearby and is discreetly studying the other patrons – before turning back to Sara. Elbows on the table, he leans closer, his eyes never leaving hers. “You know that it’s not just for me that I need to thank you.”

Her heart gives an odd little lurch. “No?”

“Back at Fox River, when you gave me my final physical-”

“Yes?”

“I asked you to look out for Michael after I was gone.”

“I remember.” She hadn’t been able to answer for the longest time, afraid that anything she might say to Lincoln would give away the fact that she’d long lost sight of the distinction between prisoner and man where his brother was concerned.

“You said you’d try.” He reaches across the table as if to touch her hand, then seems to think better of it. “But you already were, weren’t you?”

She hopes her recently acquired tan is covering the blush she can feel colouring her face, but she doubts it. “I looked out for all my patients.”

He gives her a look that plainly says she’s not fooling him in the slightest, and she realises that there’s no point in trying to pretend she doesn’t feel the way she feels. Wrapping her hands around her coffee cup – it’s still too hot to drink - she finally lets herself ask the question they both know has been eating away at her ever since she arrived. “How is he?”

“He’s good. I saw him last week,” he adds, giving her a faintly speculative glance. “I told him that you were back in the country and that I was going to be seeing you today.” Amusement dances in his eyes. “He gave me the same look he used to give me when we were kids and he thought he’d just caught me cheating at cards.”

Embarrassed, she manages a quick smile, then changes the subject. “Is he good as in normal person good, or good as in Michael good?”

“Your guess is as good as mine.” He hesitates, his glance flicking away, then back again, every trace of humour gone from his dark eyes. “He doesn’t belong in there.”

“No.” Her throat feels tight. “He never did.”

He looks at her, startled, then she sees realization dawning in his eyes. “How much has he told you?”

She tries to smile, but it doesn’t quite work. “Enough to make me understand.”

“Did he tell you about our father?”

Father? She shakes her head. “No, he didn’t, but we didn’t have a lot of time to talk.” Her pulse flutters, remembering the reason why.

Lincoln sighs. “I’d better fill in the blanks for you.”

Five minutes later, Sara is staring at him, stunned. Just when she thought she’d heard it all, along came something else to shock her to the core. “It was never about you.”

“No.” He scowls. “I was just the quickest way to get to Dad.”

“Where’s your father now?”

He shrugs, his voice tinged with bitterness. “He showed up long enough to testify against Reynolds and the Company, then he disappeared back into the woodwork.”

“I don’t remember seeing his name in the media at all.”

“They kept it quiet.” He snorts. “It’s what they do best.” He looks down at the table. “Anyway, he’s gone, and I can’t say I give a damn. He wasn’t much of a father even when he was around.”

“I’m sorry.” She reaches across the table, gently patting his forearm. “Some fathers just don’t seem to be able to relate to their children.” The irony would choke her if she let it, she thinks dryly.

He’s silent for a moment, as though mulling over her words, then he frowns. “And Michael doesn’t want you to visit him?”

She blinks, slightly taken aback by the abrupt change of subject. “That’s right.”

“Why not?”

She opens her mouth to answer, then shakes her head, knowing that any answer she might give would be so biased as to muddy the waters beyond all hope. “You’ll have to ask him,” she says evenly, reaching for the sugar.

“I did.”

Oh. “What did he say?”

He shrugs. “That he was thinking of the bigger picture and that you understood why he didn’t want you there.” He watches her as he speaks. “He said it wouldn’t be good for you to be seen visiting him, not after everything that’s gone down.” She nods, not quite trusting her voice. “And you agreed with him?”

“I didn’t,” she says shortly, shaking off a vague sense of disloyalty, “but it was his choice, and I respected that.” She takes a cautious sip of her espresso, almost sighing with bliss. She's had better cups of coffee, but not many.

Lincoln exhales loudly, the exasperated sound of an older brother who’s been there, done that. “You shouldn’t let him have everything his own way, you know.”

She can’t help smiling. “Is that the voice of experience speaking?”

“Damned right it is.”

They look at each other for what feels like a long time, then she leans back in her chair, wrapping her arms around herself. “Four years isn’t such a long time,” she says softly, unsure exactly who she’s trying to convince.

“It could have been worse,” he mutters. “We’re both still breathing.”

“That’s definitely better than the alternative.” She recognises the bleakness in his eyes; she’s seen it in Michael’s eyes. L.J.’s too, now that she’s seen him in the flesh. They’re all a little broken in one way or another, she realises, a sharp twist of regret tightening her chest, and she wonders unhappily if the scars will every truly heal. “How are you really doing?”

He sighs. “It still feels strange to be out.” He looks down at his empty coffee cup, then glances up at her, his eyes glittering. “Every morning I wake up and I think I must be dreaming because there’s light coming through the window and Vee’s beside me and I go into the kitchen and LJ is eating his breakfast.” He shakes his head. “I never thought Michael would be able to pull it off. I should have known better.”

The obvious pride in his voice tugs at her heart. “He’s a very smart man.”

“That day when he came to visit me at Statesville, when I told him I was being transferred to Fox River. He got this gleam in his eyes, you know? As if he could already see all the answers laid out in front of him.” He shakes his head again. “I don’t know why I was so shocked to see him on the inside. I should have known he was planning something when he left that damned crane behind the last time he came to see me.”

She feels her eyes widen. “A paper crane? Like origami?”

“Yeah.” He looks faintly embarrassed. “It’s a family thing. I learned how to make them at school when we had a couple of Japanese exchange kids in our class. After our parents died, I used to make them for Michael.” He shrugs. “Then when I got older and I wasn’t home much, I’d leave them on his pillow while he was sleeping, so when he woke up he’d know I’d been watching out for him.”

“He left one for me once.” While I was sleeping, she adds silently.

“Is that right?” The corners of his eyes crinkle as he smiles. “I guess that makes you family, then.”

Once again, she feels the blood rush to her face. “I don’t think he meant it quite like that.”

Lincoln’s smile becomes a smirk. “I know it’s hard to believe with everything that’s happened, but my brother doesn’t do or say anything that he doesn’t mean.”

She feels the very strong urge to bury her face in her hands, and wonders if this is what it feels like to have an older brother. If it is, she’s suddenly grateful for her status as an only child.

As if deciding to take pity on her, Lincoln clears his throat. “I saw you, that night in the hallway,” he says, and she looks up to find him watching her carefully. “I kept thinking you were going to bust into the infirmary and ask me what the hell I was doing there, but you never did.”

Still distracted by the wish to have the earth swallow her up, it takes a few seconds before she processes the full meaning of his words. “Hadn’t Michael told you he’d asked me to help?”

He shakes his head. “No.”

Her next question is such an obvious one, she can’t quite believe she needs to ask it. “How did you think you were getting out of the infirmary?”

“I had no idea.” His smile is sheepish. “But Michael said we were, so...”

“So you believed him.”

“Yeah.”

She nods, knowing all too well the compulsion to trust Michael Scofield. “So, what will you do now?” She takes another sip of coffee, then gives him a smile. “Write a book? Go on Oprah?”

He chuckles at that, suddenly looking five years younger. “I think I’ll leave that stuff to Michael. He’s much better with words than I am. Anyway, there are other things I want to do.” He looks across to where Veronica is chatting to his son, and his whole face softens. “They’ve been to hell and back because of me. I don’t know how I’m ever going to make it up to them.”

“I’m sure you’ll do just fine.”

“You too, Doc.”

“You can call me Sara as well, you know.”

He grins, and for a split-second reminds her so much of his younger brother that her heart twists. “Sure thing.”

Perhaps noting that their conversation had taken on a lighter tone, Veronica drops gracefully into the chair beside Lincoln, sitting so close that her shoulder brushes against his. “Has he told you yet?” she asks Sara with a smile.

"Not yet." Lincoln looks at the woman beside him with such tenderness that Sara feels as though she’s intruding. “I thought you might like to tell her.”

Sara studies them both in turn, belatedly noticing Veronica’s air of repressed excitement. “Tell me what?”

Veronica's face is suddenly alive with what Sara’s father would have called the light of battle. “We’re petitioning the Governor for a full pardon for Michael.”

Her heart begins to pound. “What are the chances of it being granted?”

“Much better than they used to be, that’s for damned sure,’ Lincoln mutters, then looks at her as though he’s only just remembered her last name. “No offence.”

Sara waves her hand. More than anyone else in this whole mess, Lincoln Burrows has earned to right to be bitter. “None taken.” She takes another sip of her coffee, more to give herself time to think than anything else. “But I thought Michael didn’t want you to appeal his sentence?”

“We talked about it when I saw him last.” He shrugs. “He told me to get Vee right on it.”

“I wonder why he changed his mind,” she murmurs, almost to herself. Lincoln and Veronica exchange a quick glance that speaks volumes, and she looks at them, puzzled. “What?”

Another silent conversation ensues, then Lincoln says in a quiet, flat voice, “Abruzzi’s dead.”

Sara blinks, not quite sure what that has to do with Michael finally allowing Veronica to appeal his sentence. “How?”

Veronica darts a quick glance at L.J., standing not two feet away studying the selection of cakes in the glass display case, while Lincoln’s face is a picture of practiced non-disclosure. Sara decides not to press the point, instead asking a question more likely to garner an answer. “When?”

Lincoln looks at her with an expression carved from stone, and she can’t suppress the irreverent thought that he would have made a good Secret Service agent. “Last week,” he eventually replies with obvious reluctance.

Last week. She frowns, her head on the verge of spinning. “What are you saying? That there’s a connection between his death and Michael’s decision to petition the Governor?”

“John Abruzzi was a ruthless bastard who used everything and everyone to get what he wanted.” As he speaks, he takes Veronica’s hand in his, squeezes it tightly, his eyes dark with anger. “I’m not sure if Michael ever told you, but Abruzzi was the one responsible for his gardening accident.” He literally spits out the last two words, his voice hard. “And let’s just say that Michael and I didn’t part company with him on the best of terms.”

Realisation – cold and bleak – rushes through her blood, her last conversation with Michael replaying in her head. You have to stay away. There are still people out there who would happily use you as leverage or bait or worse.

As so often seems to happen when Michael is concerned, she once again feels that odd juxtaposition of joy and grief. Just when she thinks he might be the one in need of saving, it seems that he is still watching over her. “The petitioning process,” she says with a calm that belies the energy that is suddenly humming beneath her skin. “Tell me what I can do to help.”

~*~

When Michael finally calls her, six weeks later, she’s standing in the bedroom of her apartment, contemplating the unappealing task of sorting out her wardrobe. Picking up her cell phone, she stares in disbelief at the Caller ID for a moment, her heart racing at the simple word INMATE then presses answer with a shaking finger. “Hello?”

“Doctor Tancredi, I presume?”

The sound of his voice travels down her spine like a caress. “You presume correctly.”

“How are you?”

“I’m fine,” she says simply. Now is not the time to tell him of the uninteresting locum work she’s been doing since her return or the fact that the thought of him rarely leaves her.

She hears him take a quick breath. “You may already know this, but I wanted to tell you that it looks as though I might be out of here a little earlier than expected.”

She didn’t already know and, amidst the rush of blood to her head, the thought occurs to her that Veronica and Lincoln have deliberately left it for Michael to deliver this piece of news. “Legally, I hope?” she asks in a voice that sounds as unsteady as her knees suddenly feel.

He chuckles softly in her ear, and she feels gooseflesh rise up all over her body. “Walking out through the front door.”

She closes her eyes, one hand groping blindly for the edge of her dresser. “When?”

“Not sure yet. I’ll call you when I know.” He hesitates, and when he speaks again, the uncertainty in his voice makes her heart ache. “If you want me to, that is.”

She presses the phone a little harder against her ear, as if that might somehow bring him closer to her. “Yes. I want you to.”

He lets out his breath in a long, slow sigh of relief that she almost believes she can feel drifting across her skin. “Good.” There is another moment’s silence, but it’s one filled with an increasingly heady sense of anticipation, rather than awkwardness. “I’ve been wondering,” he says in a soft drawl that does odd things to the pit of her stomach, “what I might want to do once I’m out.”

The sound of her breathing sounds very loud in the quiet room, her mouth suddenly feeling very dry. “And what have you decided?”

“Well, I know you’ve probably had enough of sun and sand, but-”

There’s more than a hint of nervous laughter in his voice, and she finds her own mouth curving in a smile. “What did you have in mind?”

“I wouldn’t mind buying a t-shirt to match that one of yours.”

She wants to laugh. She wants to cry. Perhaps, she thinks as a pure wave of joy bubbles up inside her, she might just do both. “I think that could be arranged.”

~*~

The next time she thinks she sees him, she blames the sun.

Because surely, she thinks as she watches him walk along the sand towards her, he cannot be wearing what she thinks he’s wearing. She squints into the sun. No, she’s not mistaken. When he last visited this place, he’d been masquerading as a well-heeled college boy. Today, he’s sporting what can only be described as stoner chic - baggy khaki shorts that have seen better days and a lurid Hawaiian shirt over a long sleeved white t-shirt. And – she peers closer – battered skate shoes that are currently being soaked by the foamy wash of the sea.

“Nice outfit,” she offers when he’s close enough to hear, surprised she sounds so composed when her whole body feels as though it’s vibrating like a wind chime.

Stopping a few feet from her, he brushes one hand down the front of the slightly crumpled white shirt, then gives her a quick smile that doesn’t quite hide the apprehension in his eyes. “Thank you.” He stares at her, his intent gaze sweeping her face - lingering on her mouth just long enough for her pulse to spike - before locking with hers.

The early afternoon sunlight makes his skin look more tanned than usual, his eyes a curious blend of green and grey, and she suddenly realises that she has never seen him outdoors, at least not without a wire fence between them. There is absolutely nothing between them now, and the thought has her shoving her hands in the back pockets of her linen shorts, returning his gaze with a calm that belies the hammering of her heart. After a few seconds, she lets her eyes drop to his shirtfront, then to his battered shoes, then back up again, knowing that despite the wardrobe, he’s the most beautiful sight she’s seen in years. “I thought they had to give you a new suit,” she adds lightly.

A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “The powers that be obviously decided to make an exception in my case.” His eyes darken as he looks at her, and she knows he feels it too, the invisible current of sexual electricity arcing between them. Her hands are literally itching with the urge to reach for him, to dip her thumb into the tanned hollow of his throat as she draws his face down to hers. But they’re on a crowded beach and old habits die hard.

“I wasn’t expecting you for another two hours.”

“I caught the earlier flight.”

“Right.” He hadn’t wanted her to be anywhere near Pekin when he’d been released three days ago, and she had been secretly relieved. Even though he’d been released a day ahead of schedule to avoid such a thing, it had been enough of a media circus that it had made the local news in Saint James. She’d turned the television off as soon as she’d heard his name mentioned, not wanting to see him being jostled by cameras and microphones. It would be much easier, he’d told her on the phone, for him to slip out of the country and into another in the early hours of the morning if he was alone. Much easier for her to check into the hotel by herself a few days beforehand, give herself some time to get used to the thought of him being out, as though she hadn’t spent the last few months doing just that.

Just when she thinks she might go a little crazy with nervous anticipation, he starts to walk towards her, his eyes never leaving her face. When he reaches her side, he takes her hand, threading his fingers through hers, his palm fitting warmly against her own. She sucks in a sharp breath at the feel of his warm flesh against hers, the memory of his touch rippling across her skin. It doesn’t seem possible that the simple touch of someone’s hand could make you feel as though you were about to burst, but Michael Scofield has taught her to believe in a lot of impossible things.

“It’s good to see you, Sara.”

She grips his hand a little tighter. “You, too.”

His other hand resting lightly on her hip, he bows his head, his eyes glowing with the same hunger that has her toes curling into the wet sand. She closes her eyes, then feels the soft touch of his lips on her cheek, then the corner of her mouth. His nose brushes against hers, his breath whispering over her lips, then he kisses her, the warmth of the sun on her eyelids no match for the gentle heat of his mouth. A dizzying rush of desire floods her veins, a soft sigh catching in the back of her throat as she opens her mouth to his kiss, tasting spearmint gum and coffee. The hand on her hip tightens, a shudder going through him, then he slowly pulls away. She opens her eyes to find him gazing at her with an unutterable tenderness that makes her heart race.

She opens her mouth to say something – anything – but she has the sudden feeling of being watched. Turning her head, she finds an elderly couple smiling at them indulgently, the whip-thin husband wearing a shirt almost identical to Michael’s. Her face grows hot, and she turns back to Michael in time to see his rueful smile. “Perhaps we should talk somewhere else?” he says softly.

The last thing she wants to do at this moment is talk, but she’s all for going somewhere more private. “Sure.”

They begin to walk along the beach, her hand still tightly clasped in his, her other hand holding her leather slides, and she wonders if this is what it feels like to have a dream made reality. “Did you bring any luggage with you, or is this the extent of your wardrobe?”

"I did," He tilts his head to give her a look of mock indignation, “but I’ll have you know this is the finest shirt I’ve ever stolen from my brother’s closet.”

She laughs, a breathless sound that feels as though it comes right up from the soles of her feet. “How is Lincoln?”

“I spent the last couple of days with them.” By them she assumes he means Veronica and L.J. as well. “They’re good.”

“Did you tell them where you were going?”

“Yes.”

She nudges his shoulder with hers, discreetly steering him towards the path that leads to the hotel. “What did Lincoln say?”

“Not much,” he replies smoothly, the tips of his ears turning faintly pink beneath his tan.

She hides a smile. After her own conversation with Lincoln Burrows, she can well imagine the brotherly jibing that may have gone on. She briefly considers pressing him for details, but decides against it, knowing he would only find some way to deflect any teasing right back at her, and she’s not sure she’s up to that particular challenge just yet.

Conscious of him with every inch of her body, she falls silent as they reach the entrance of the hotel, and despite his earlier remark, Michael seems content not to talk. As they approach the uniformed doorman, Sara looks down at her sandy feet. “Wait, I need a minute.”

She’s barely finished speaking before his hand is beneath her elbow, his other hand taking her shoes from her grasp. Giving him a grateful smile, she dusts the sand from her feet as best she can, then reclaims her shoes. “Thank you.” Her shoes back on her now almost sand-free feet, she takes his outstretched hand once more. The concierge nods politely as they pass, and Sara feels the urge to pinch herself. Strolling into a five-star hotel hand in hand with Michael Scofield is definitely a surreal experience.

“Have you already checked in?” she asks as they cross the hotel foyer. “Your luggage has already been sent up to the room?”

“Yes and yes.” He looks at her, laughter dancing in his eyes. “Bit of a coincidence that you’re staying in the same room as last time, don’t you think?”

She hits the button for the elevator. “Not really.”

His smile widens. “You old romantic, you.”

“I’m making a concerted effort to be less cynical these days.”

“How’s that working for you?”

She flashes him a grin. “You tell me.”

“I’ll do that.”

By the time the elevator arrives, there are several other people waiting with them, and she’s not entirely sure she isn’t glad. She’d thought she was ready to see him again, that she was ready to be with him. Now she’s wondering if any amount of mental preparation would have been enough to deal with every single nerve-ending in her body going into spasm every time he touches her.

He leans against the wall in the hallway as she swipes her keycard through the door lock, then follows her into the room. She glances over her shoulder at him as she crosses the room to open the sliding door that leads onto the balcony, vaguely noting that his luggage has been neatly stacked on the floor near the writing desk. “What would you like to do? We could order room service, or unpack your things or go for a swim, or -” she turns to face him, her voice trailing off as his eyes met hers. She drops her hands to her sides as he closes the distance between them with two slow, deliberate strides.

“Keep going,” he says as he starts to unbutton her shirt, his eyes gleaming. “You’ll get there.”

His mouth covers hers - cool lips and hot tongue – in a languid kiss that quickly becomes something quite different. She clutches at the front of his t-shirt, fingers twisting the soft material as her lips part beneath his and she’s suddenly drowning in the taste and scent and feel of him. She closes her eyes as his clever hands skim over buttons and zippers, the warmth of his body chasing away the chill of the last several months from her bones. Perhaps she should say something, but she’s far too preoccupied with pushing the Hawaiian shirt from his shoulders and sliding her hands underneath his t-shirt to touch the solid warmth of his chest and stomach, her fingertips dipping beneath the loose waistband of his shorts.

He mutters something beneath his breath, then he’s half-lifting, half-pushing her towards the bed. Putting one knee on the mattress for balance, she curls her arms around his neck and kisses him, letting her teeth scrape against his bottom lip, pulling him down with her as she tumbles backwards onto the bed. She kisses his jaw, his throat, his shoulder, tasting salt and heat, the warmth of the sun lingering on his skin. His hands grip her hips, his thumbs and fingers tugging almost clumsily at her underwear and then his own clothes, his usual air of methodical patience seemingly deserting him.

He’s still wearing his shorts when he gently pushes her back onto the bed, then slides down the length of her body, kissing the hollow between her breasts, then her stomach, then lower still. She feels his hands on her thighs, his fingers splayed wide, then he puts his mouth on her.

Oh, my God.

His tongue slides deftly over her heated flesh, and she feels as though she’s about to dissolve into the cool white sheets. She closes her eyes, the breath shuddering gently in her lungs, once again struck by that odd feeling of being suddenly plunged into an alternate world. Fifteen minutes ago, she was standing alone on the beach, and now she’s lying on this bed and they’ve barely exchanged two words and the words conjugal visit are twisting through her mind but, oh God, she doesn’t give a damn.

Her heels dig into the mattress, her awareness narrowing to the heavy throb of arousal between her thighs. Her hands are on his shoulders, her fingernails biting into his skin, her hips lifting in mute supplication to the relentless pressure of his lips and tongue. Finally, he touches her, his long fingers teasing and stroking with spectacular accuracy, and she is lost. A pulsing rush of heat ripples through her womb and belly, stealing coherent thought from her mind and the bones from her limbs.

Her body feeling ten times heavier than usual, she rolls over onto her side and lies slumped in a warm heap of scrambled nerves for what seems like an eternity, vaguely aware of Michael moving to lie beside her, his hands stroking the length of her back. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to move again, she thinks dazedly, then he’s kissing her, his mouth as warm and insistent as the touch of his hands on her body, and she feels the heat rising beneath her skin once more. Strangely enough, she manages to find the renewed energy to run her hands down his back, hooking her thumbs into the waistband of his shorts. “You seem to have this problem with being overdressed.”

“I had other things on my mind,” he drawls softly, his hands sliding up her stomach as he bows his head to her breast. Swallowing a gasp at the gentle scrape of his teeth over her nipple, she cups the hard heat between his legs. He sucks in a sharp breath, arching into her touch even as he mutters a dark, “Just how fast do you want this to be over?”

“I don’t care.” Her fingers struggle with his zipper for a few frustrated seconds, then they’re both pulling his shorts down and off and he’s groaning as she wraps her hand around him. “I just want you.”

“That fast, hey?” he mutters, his voice not quite steady, but his hands are already sliding up her thighs and underneath her bottom, lifting her up to him. She feels him against her, the sleek head of his erection brushing the lingering tenderness between her legs, then he presses himself deep inside her with one smooth thrust, making her whole body clench. “I dreamed of this,” he whispers, his mouth hot against her throat. “I dreamed of you.”

Oh, Michael. She wants to close her eyes, but the thought of not watching him, not seeing his face, is suddenly unbearable.

He begins to move, every roll of his hips reigniting her still tingling flesh, and she can’t control the soft moan that pours from her throat. A tiny smile touches his lips at the sound, then the air leaves his lungs with a woosh as she lifts her hips, wrapping one leg around his waist. Curling her hands around his neck, she pulls his mouth down to hers, kissing him fiercely, kissing him the way she has always wanted to kiss him, every day since they first met.

He’s right - it’s fast - but it’s hard and it’s good and he whispers her name against her mouth when he comes, his body shuddering in her embrace, and she’s not sure if the tears she tastes on his lips are hers or his.

They lie tangled together without speaking, their skin slick with cooled sweat. Giving in to a long suppressed impulse, she runs her hand lazily over his head, enjoying the brush of his closely cropped hair against her fingers. She knows he doesn’t indulge in false modesty, but she has to wonder if even he realises how much his customary hairstyle enhances the most beautifully shaped skull she’s ever seen. She isn't sure if she was always this shallow when it came to physical beauty or if Michael simply brings it out in her, then she decides that she doesn’t care either way.

After a few minutes, he props himself up on one elbow, gazing at her as he brushes the hair back from her damp forehead. “I’m sorry.”

She touches his face, feeling the solid line of his jaw against her palm. “What for?”

“I didn’t mean to -” he looks at her with a faintly embarrassed smile, “I didn’t plan to pounce on you like that. I just-”

“Michael.” Shut up, she adds silently as she puts her thumb on his lips. “I liked it.”

His eyes darken. Turning his head, he kisses her palm, then gently touches the pendant around her neck with one finger. “You weren’t wearing this last time.”

“No.”

“You wore it every day at Fox River.”

“That I did.” She smiles, both at the thought he’d remember such a thing – although she shouldn’t be surprised - and the memory of the original owner. “It belonged to my mother.”

“It’s an abacus,” he says softly, his eyes lighting up with delight. “I never realised.”

“I didn’t wear it for a while.” She closes her eyes as he traces the outline of the pendant, his fingertips cool against her skin. “The clasp broke the night the paramedics brought me in.” She opens her eyes to look at him. “I had it fixed before I left for Luanda. I missed having that little part of her with me.”

He nods, as though he understands about keepsakes and she thinks he probably does, then he runs his hand up the length of her thigh, his mouth covering hers in a kiss that borders on obscene, and they don’t speak for a long time.

Much later, they order room service and share an early dinner on the small balcony, and she can’t help thinking that their first meal together is a lot more relaxed than she ever imagined it would be. They sip mineral water – he refuses a beer, even though she insists she doesn’t mind – and watch the daylight fade into a soft pink and blue haze.

“How’s your father?”

“He’s coping,” she replies, although an honest answer would be more along the lines of he says he’s coping, but I don’t actually believe him. She threads her fingers through his. “Yours?”

A tiny muscle in his jaw flickers. “No idea.”

“Perhaps he’ll resurface. He has no reason to stay away now.”

He shrugs. “I don’t care anymore, to be honest.”

“Yes, you do.”

He tilts his head to look at her, eyebrows raised. “You know, I think I liked it better when you couldn’t tell if I was lying.”

She grins, leaning over to kiss him softly. “Really?”

He lifts his hand to her face, his palm warm against her skin, his reply a soft whisper against her lips. “No.”

That night, she lies in the darkness with Michael’s arm heavy around her waist, the gentle touch of his rhythmic breathing on the nape of her neck. Closing her eyes, she pushes aside the disquieting sense of fractured reality and says a silent thank you – to God, to karma, to the universe – for giving him back to her. Whether or not he’s still in the proverbial ‘one piece’ is another matter, she thinks, gently running her hand along his tattooed arm. For now, though, he’s with her, and that’s a good start.

~*~

They sleep late the next morning.

They sleep late every morning for the next week and, by the fourth day, the circles under his eyes have begun to fade. They walk on the beach every day, and sometimes she watches their feet as they walk. She can’t help but feel a sense of pride in how beautifully his left foot has healed, and becomes so used to the sight of the three long toes that she barely notices anything is missing. The burn on his back is almost completely healed as well, and she often finds herself running her fingers across the skin when they’re alone, marveling in the smooth-rough texture of it, a small piece of blank canvas amidst the hieroglyphics.

She learns all the small things; how he holds his knife and fork, what movies he likes to watch, that he prefers to sleep on the right-hand side of the bed, that he likes to run his hands through her hair when it’s still damp from the shower. She knows he’ll try almost anything on a menu – as if he wants to taste everything just because he can - and that he prefers beer to liquor. She learns something new about him every day, but it’s everything she doesn’t learn that worries her.

She knows he dreams of Fox River - she’s woken in the night to hear him muttering words she can’t understand, his body twisting in her embrace - but she doesn’t press him to share his dreams with her. When he’s ready to talk about it, she tells herself, he will. There are times though, when he doesn’t know she’s watching him, that the darkness in his eyes makes her heart ache.

They talk about Lincoln and Veronica, his stories of their shared childhood making her smile. She suspects he’s leaving out many unsavoury details, but again, she doesn’t push him. Apart from Lincoln, the only fellow escapee he will discuss is his former cellmate. According to the newspapers, Fernando Sucre apparently remains at large, seemingly vanished from the face of the earth. When she finally asks him what happened to Sucre, Michael simply says, “He went home,” with a faint smirk, and she’s surprised to find the answer pleases her.

“Lincoln told me that Abruzzi is dead,” she says hesitantly on the morning of their fourth day together. It’s early – for them – and the crowds have not yet flocked to the pure white sand.

Michael’s hand tightens around hers. “That’s right.”

She looks down at her bare feet, staring at the wet sand clinging to her toes, then glances at him. “How did it happen?”

“I didn’t kill him, if that’s what you’re asking,” he says in a flat voice, his eyes on the water.

It is, but she doesn’t tell him that, because she’s not sure if she’s asking for her sake or for his. “I take it that it wasn’t an accident.”

“You could say that,” he replies abruptly, then stops walking, his hand tugging at hers as she goes to take another step. “I’m sorry, it’s just that-” He rubs his thumb softly over the inside of her wrist, making her pulse flutter, and she wonders if he can feel it too. “Can we not talk about this right now?”

“I shouldn’t have asked.”

“No, you should have.” He smiles at her, but it doesn’t quite chase away the shadows in his eyes. “But I'd rather talk about something more interesting this morning." Lifting her hand to his lips, he presses a lingering kiss to her knuckles. “Tell me more about your adventures with Max the Wonderdog,” he says teasingly, alluding to the childhood pet she’s beginning to regret mentioning.

Biting back a sigh, she contents herself with giving him a good-natured eye roll, bumping her shoulder against his as they start to walk once more. She does as he asks and tells him funny stories about her long-dead dog, her light-hearted words drifting away, leaving behind the uneasy certainty that they will only be able to pretend for so long.

~*~

After a week, they leave the hotel, wanting more privacy, wanting fewer walls around them.

The villa is small and very, very private. It also has honeymoon suite written all over it, Sara thinks with faint despair as she drops her bags inside the door. From the canopy bed draped with pure white netting to the enormous bathtub with more spa jets than should be possible, it’s enough to set her teeth on edge. It’s not that she doesn’t appreciate the opportunities such things provide, but she can’t help resenting the implications that such romantic opulence brings.

On their third morning in the villa, he receives a Fed-Ex satchel from the States. She finds him sitting on one of the high kitchen stools, sheets of paper strewn across the top of the counter. After making the disappointing discovery they have run out of ground coffee for the machine and will have to make do with instant, she nods at the papery mess he’s made. “What’s all this?”

“Stuff from Veronica. Just some paperwork I have to sort out.” He hesitates, then hands her a long, folded piece of paper. “Here.”

She stares at the words for a moment. Judgment for Dissolution of Marriage. “Oh.” The paper in her hand states that Michael Scofield’s marriage to Nika Volek had been formally dissolved three weeks’ earlier. She bites her bottom lip, then does her best to sound matter-of-fact. “Very thorough.”

“Just thought you’d like to know,” he says in a casual voice that’s not casual at all, his eyes not quite meeting hers, and she wants nothing more than to pretend they’re not having this conversation.

Tossing him a quick smile, she busies her hands by boiling the kettle. To be honest, she'd rather have no coffee than instant coffee, but it’s either do this or think of something sensible to say on the subject of Michael’s marriage. What the hell is wrong with her? she thinks furiously. Isn’t this what she wanted? What she’d spent all those months waiting for?

There’s silence for a few moments, then he says softly, “It was only ever business.”

Sara keeps her eyes on the task at hand, not wanting to look at him and relive the moment she saw him kissing his wife goodbye outside the conjugal visit room. “I believe you, Michael.” Steam begins to puff gently out of the spout of the kettle, and she briefly entertains the foolish notion that perhaps the same will soon start coming from her ears if he doesn’t change the subject.

He doesn’t. “Nika told me something about you. The day she stole your keys, I mean.”

She looks at him, hoping her inner wince at the sound of his wife’s name - his ex-wife’s name, she corrects herself - isn’t showing on her face. “What?”

“She said that you cared for me.”

Reaching out, she turns off the gas jet beneath the kettle, the bright blue flame flickering for an instant before dying. “Did that make it harder or easier to do what you did?”

He’s staring at her now, the scattered paperwork seemingly forgotten for the moment. “Both.”

They exchange a long glance that leaves her feeling faintly breathless, then she gestures limply towards the kettle. “Do you want coffee? Juice?”

He pushes the papers aside and gets to his feet, the almost predatory look glowing in his eyes making her belly shiver with lust. “Is there a door number three?”

Afterwards, lying in bed, he watches her through half-lidded eyes as she touches the intricate drawings covering his flat stomach. “Do they bother you?”

“No.” She dances her fingertips over the delicate outline of the fallen angel, her fingernail lightly scoring Michael’s skin as she follows the curve of its shoulder downward from his navel. “Do they bother you?”

“Sometimes.” His hands are suddenly under her arms and he’s pulling her upwards, her skin sliding against his in a smooth rush that makes her blood grow warm. “Not right now, though.”

~*~

She loves him.

She loves him more than she can remember loving any man and she can’t quite believe that she’s not ecstatically happy to be here with him. She should be ecstatic, because he’s here and he’s safe and she’s here and she’s clean and they’re better together than she could have ever imagined. But all too often - between the sex and the smiles and the touches and the soft words - he disconnects, his gaze locked on a point beyond the horizon and she knows he’s a thousand miles away.

When it starts happening more and more, dark thoughts begin to skirt the edges of her mind, the word inertia creeping into her head and sliding through her thoughts on a relentless loop. He has survived horrors that she can’t begin to imagine and she wants so much to help him exorcise his demons – to escape the monsters – but she can’t do that if he won’t share them with her. She can’t stop thinking that this is his reward for surviving, that she is his reward and he hasn’t thought any further than this bed and this place and the way their bodies fit together perfectly as if by design.

They bicker amiably, but it’s never about anything other than where to have lunch or whether to share the shower or the bathtub. After another week of this physical and emotional meandering, the urge to prod him – perhaps even goad him – into talking about the future proves too strong to resist.

“Do you ever miss it?”

He glances up at her, toothbrush in hand. “What?”

She watches his reflection in the bathroom mirror. “Your job.” She tries to laugh, but it sounds more like a nervous giggle. Damn it. “You know, life.”

“Not really.” He tilts his head to look at her, a frown tugging at his forehead. “Do you?”

“Sometimes,” she says slowly, knowing she needs to choose her words carefully. “I miss being able to do my job. I miss helping people.”

He rinses his mouth and pats his face dry, and she has the feeling he’s using the time to decide the best way to answer her. “Maybe now’s a good time for you to look after yourself,” he finally says, hooking the towel back on the rack.

Leaning against the frame of the bathroom door, she shoves her hands into the pockets of her jeans. There’s a tiny curl at the nape of his neck, and if she gives into the impulse to touch it, it will be another hour before they get to breakfast. “Maybe.”

He brushes his lips against hers as he leaves the bathroom, a mint-scented caress that makes her toes curl. She trails slowly after him as he walks down the hallway, and once she’s beside him, he nods towards that morning’s newspaper lying on the table, in which the latest allegations against the now-disgraced former President Reynolds are once again splashed all over the front page. “You took the job at Fox River because you wanted to make a difference.” His eyes lock with hers. “Mission accomplished, wouldn’t you say?”

“You and Lincoln and Veronica accomplished that.” Her throat feels tight. “Not me.”

He opens his mouth as if to argue with her, then gives her a bright smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, something that is happening all too often. “Didn’t you want to visit the market in Saint James today?”

She doesn’t want to look at the market. She wants to throw something. She wants to thump her hands against his chest until he looks at her, really looks at her, and lets her see inside his head. She wants to dive into the blue expanse of the bay and silently scream beneath the water until her throat is raw. Instead, she just smiles and takes his outstretched hand. “Sure.”

She wants this to be more than a reward, she thinks with increasing despair. She wants this to be another life.

~*~

It takes three more days for her to summon the courage to voice the fear that has been keeping her awake at night. She waits until they’re on the terrace, eating the grilled fish he’s prepared – she mentally adds good cook to his seemingly endless resume – and wishes briefly she was drinking something stronger than water. “What are we doing here, Michael?”

He quirks an eyebrow. “Having dinner?”

“You know what I mean.” She spears a piece of fish and puts it in her mouth, chews it without tasting it. “What happens now?”

He reaches for his water glass. “What would you like to happen?”

“I’m not sure.” It’s galling to have to admit, after being the one to bring up the issue, but she wants to be as honest as she can. She pushes a piece of potato aside with her fork, then darts a quick glance at him. “I don’t know if I’m ready to go back to the real world.”

“You saying this isn’t real?” Beneath the table, his bare knee bumps gently against hers. “I’m offended.”

The brush of his skin on hers is distracting, but she ignores it as best she can. “You know what I mean.”

He sips his water slowly, his eyes searching her face. “You’re talking about going back to Chicago.”

“Yes.”

“We don’t have to go back to Chicago. We can go wherever we want.”

“Isn’t that running away?” She holds her breath, realising the hypocrisy of her words; she’d run all the way to Angola to escape the memory of him.

His jaw tightens, but his tone is still mild. “No, it’s living.”

The thought of wandering the globe together would be enough to make her skin tingle if she didn't suspect it would be for all the wrong reasons. “Don’t you want to stay close to your family?”

“LJ has one year left in school, then who knows where they’ll end up?” He flashes her a sudden grin, and she wonders if he and his brother have already discussed this particular subject. “Besides, airfares are cheap.”

“So.” She inhales a long, deep breath, twisting her hands in her lap. “What happens to you and me?”

One elegantly shaped eyebrow lifts once more. “You could keep working with DWB, if that’s what you wanted.”

“What would you be doing?” She puts down her fork, giving up any pretense of her appetite still being in existence. “Are you planning to work again?”

He puts down his glass with exaggerated care, the pressure of his fingertips leaving marks on the misted surface. “I don’t know.”

“Then what would you do? Sit around and watch me inoculate babies?” He says nothing, and she feels a resurgent flicker of her old anger. She’s not sure exactly with whom she is angry, but the thought of him wasting any more of his life is unbearable. “You’re a brilliant man, Michael. Are you telling me you’d be happy to spend your life in some remote dustbowl while the rest of the world goes on without you?”

He flicks a vaguely harried glance in her direction, then looks away. “We could work something out.”

She lets out a shaky breath. “How?” She hears the despair in her voice, and wonders if he hears it too.

He does. His gaze narrows and, for a brief moment, she is back in the infirmary and the gulf between them feels insurmountable. “If you can’t see how, Sara,” he asks in a hard voice, “then why are you here?”

She says nothing; there’s nothing she can say that will make any sense. It’s the same old problem - how can she explain what she doesn’t fully understand herself?

A thick silence falls between them - she ends up pushing her half-empty plate aside - and ten minutes later when he announces that he’s going for a walk on the beach, she doesn’t offer to join him. The relief in his eyes only serves to make her feel worse.

After he leaves, she wanders aimlessly around the small villa, ending up lying on their bed, flicking through a local newspaper without enthusiasm. It’s a bad idea. The rumpled sheets smell like Michael’s shaving cream and her soap, and she’s already become far too accustomed to having him beside her. The king-sized bed feels vast and cold, and she finds herself staring at the newspaper print until her eyes blur, her heart aching with the knowledge that she has made things worse and she has no idea how to make them better.

The room is much darker when she finally hears the sound of his bare feet on the tiles in the hallway. Swinging her legs off the bed, she straightens her clothes, then takes a deep breath that does nothing to calm her tangled nerves. She still has no idea how to make things right between them, but she has to try.

As she walks down the hallway, she thinks of something Lincoln had said to her when they’d met in San Francisco. You shouldn’t let him have things his own way all the time. Lifting her chin, she feels the welcome sensation of her mental heels digging in. Michael Scofield might well be the most stubborn man she’s ever met, but even the most stubborn of men can be open to persuasion.

She finds him on the balcony, sprawled on one of the white lounge chairs, watching the sunset slowly bleed into the pure blue water of the bay. He looks as lost as she’s ever seen him, the emptiness in his eyes tearing at her heart, and she knows that she cannot bear to let him go.

He doesn’t look up as she puts her hand on his shoulder, and she falters slightly when she feels the tension in him. “I’m sorry,” she says softly, looking down at his achingly familiar profile. “I guess this is still all a little unreal for me.” She rubs her thumb over the tight muscle in his shoulder, and he slowly begins to relax into her touch. “I just feel as though I’m treading water here.”

“I like it here,” he says softly. Wistfully. “It’s peaceful.” He stares at the tangerine skyline, his eyes laden with thoughts she knows better than to ask him to share, and she feels that damned gulf between them widen a little more.

“I like it here too, Michael,” she whispers. “It’s just – I’m afraid that we’re fooling ourselves.” Her eyes feel hot and gritty. She’d like to blame the sand and the sun, but she knows better. “That this – you and me – isn’t going to work in the real world.”

He twists around, swinging one foot off the lounge chair, then tugs gently on her hand to pull her down until she’s sitting in front of him between his legs. “I thought you were working on that whole cynical thing.”

“Hard habit to break, I guess.” Avoiding his eyes, she trails her finger along the deep v-neck of his white shirt, enjoying the rare sight of him in short sleeves, the buttons undone almost to his waist. His habit of wearing long sleeves persists, but tonight the air is lush with humidity and his skin is flushed with a lingering heat from his walk on the beach. As she has done many times before, she traces the outline of the angel’s wing with her fingernail, a hollow ache tightening her chest. His tattoos are mysterious swirls of bluish haze in the half-light, and she knows she would never grow tired of looking at them.

“Are you worried about what your father will think?”

“Of course I am.” The thought of breaking the news that she is involved with Michael Scofield to her father is the stuff of nightmares, but she shakes her head. “But that’s not the reason. There are still so many things I don’t know about you.” She gives him a tremulous smile that feels odd on her lips. “And I’m not sure I ever will know them.”

He sighs heavily, but there’s no anger in his voice. “Don’t you think, after everything we’ve done to get here, to get to this point, that we owe it to ourselves to try?” He brushes the hair out of her eyes, his fingertips dancing lightly over the curve of her ear. “Or are you afraid that this is just one more thing in your life that’s not going to last?”

Not for the first time, she silently despairs of his photographic memory. I don’t like getting attached to things if I know they won’t last. Oh God, she wants to try. She wants to trust him with her heart the way she trusts him with her life, but she’s still afraid and she doesn’t know how to stop. “Michael, I just don’t know if - ”

“I’m in love with you.”

He says the words without ceremony, so casually that it takes a few seconds for them to impact. She stares at him, her heart reeling. “Oh.”

The smile he gives her a faintly bashful one that makes her stomach flip over. “And there are answers to your questions."

There’s suddenly a lump in her throat the size of a fist and only one question she wants to ask. “How long have you been in love with me?”

“I don’t know exactly,” he says simply, “but it feels like a very long time.”

The sound of the ocean is loud in her ears, then she realises it’s the rush of her pulse. “I lied to you once.”

His hand is resting lightly on the curve of her neck. She can feel the warmth of his touch all the way down her spine. “You did?”

“You asked me if I ever thought about it, about what if. If maybe, in another life, you and I might-” She blinks away the sudden blurring in her eyes, twisting her hands together in her lap to keep herself from reaching for him. “I did think about it,” she finally whispers. “I thought about it until I wanted to hate you for it.”

He’s watching her with hooded eyes, his expression an odd blend of wariness and hope, and the urge to reach out and touch him is now almost overwhelming. “I wanted to hate you for it but I couldn’t.” The words she knows he wants to hear are burning on her tongue. It’s been a long time since she said them, even longer since she said them and meant them with all her heart. “I tried so hard not to fall in love with you,” she finally whispers, “but then suddenly I was and I still am and it terrifies me.”

He cups her face in his hands, his palms warm against her skin, his eyes glowing. “I’m in love with you and that’s not going to change.” His hands never leave her face but she feels the familiar touch of them everywhere, her skin prickling with recognition. “I’m ready to take a leap of faith if you are.”

She opens her mouth to speak - there are still so many dark little doubts clamouring to be voiced - but when she looks at him, sees the soft desperation in his eyes, they all fall silent. She can walk away from this man because she is afraid, or she can reach out and take his hand and everything that comes with it.

A leap of faith, she thinks as she looks at him, and it is suddenly very simple. She made her decision long ago, although whether it was after their first kiss, their first touch or that first glance, she may never know. What lies between them is the sum of so many things and it’s what she wants - more than she’s ever wanted anything - and that is all that matters.

She leans forward and touches her mouth to his in a soft, almost chaste kiss. Her hands rest lightly on his chest; pale yet strong against the indigo patterns that mark his skin. He stays utterly still, his lips cool against hers, the thrum of his heartbeat steady beneath her palm. Drawing back, she lets herself smile and for the first time in days she doesn’t feel as though she’s pretending. “So am I.”

His answering smile lights up his face, and she feels the spark of anticipation begin to glimmer beneath her skin. Murmuring her name as though it is a precious taste on his tongue, he slides his fingers through her salt-tangled hair, lifting her face to his. There are still many secrets between them, but his flesh is solid and alive and real beneath her hands, his kiss as gentle as the warm breeze that teases the nape of her neck, and she is no longer afraid.

~*~

EPILOGUE

It is only with the heart that one can see rightly; what is essential is invisible to the eye.

~ Antoine de Saint-Exupéry

~*~

She can’t stop touching him.

Not the tattooed canvas of his chest and back and arms - she’s explored and had most of its mysteries explained to her – but the flawless expanse of skin that hadn’t been required for his grand plan.

In public, her fingertips seem to act of their own accord, brushing the backs of his hands, the nape of his neck, the paler skin inside his wrists - silent, secret touches that earn her a slow, knowing smile and only serve to sharpen the hunger that hums between them.

In private, she’s far less discreet. She skims her hands lightly over the tops of his tanned feet, the lean length of his calves and thighs, the hard curve of his bottom, the physician in her giving a name to each muscle as she touches them. Biceps femoris. Gluteus maximus. Transversus abdominis. Her hands and her body don’t bother with such educated things - all they know is the feel of him, the brush of his skin against hers in the darkness – but her mind still feels the need to catalogue and identify. And perhaps, she admits reluctantly, the need to claim them as her own.

She can’t stop touching him, and she can’t stop herself from trying to imagine how he’d looked before he’d surrendered his body to the blueprints of his brother’s salvation. And, as much as she tries to suppress the feeling, some small part of her resents the fact she will never know him as he once was.

On their third night in London, he turns to her with dark, serious eyes. “May I ask you something?”

She stretches lazily, tangling her legs with his. “Of course.”

“Do the tattoos bother you?”

Her pulse is still thick and sluggish, her skin still shimmering with arousal, but she returns his gaze steadily. “Why?” It isn’t the first time he’s asked her this question, and she wonders if he will keep asking her until she gives him the answer he really wants. Whatever that might be, she muses silently. She doubts if even he knows what he needs to hear.

He looks down at her hand, which is currently etching lazy patterns on his tanned, tattoo-free thigh, and she knows that he’s noticed her fascination with his unmarked skin. “Just a hunch.”

She feels a flush creep over her face. Damn it. Not for the first time, she silently rues the sixth sense he seems to possess when it comes to her. “They don’t bother me.” She dips her head to press a lingering kiss to the hilt of the demon’s sword that sits below his collarbone, tasting the salt of his skin with her tongue. “I’ve seen them more than I’ve seen the rest of you, that’s all.” She presses her teeth gently against his skin, enjoying the subtle shudder that runs through him, then lifts her head to look at him. “They’ve been part of you as long as I’ve known you,” she murmurs, ghosting her fingertips across his chest as she struggles to find the words to explain, “and sometimes I can’t help trying to picture what you looked like without them.”

“There are times when I can’t remember.” His hand comes up tangle itself in her hair, then he stretches out his other arm, studying it dispassionately. “Even if I have them removed, they’ll always be there,” he says softly, his gaze flicking up to meet hers. “I’ll still see them.”

Something tightens inside her chest. “I know.” She rests her head on his shoulder, leaning backwards into the curve of his arm so she can see his face. “How do you feel about that?” She sounds like a damned shrink, she knows, but she’s not letting this conversation slip through her fingers.

He shrugs. “They used to brand criminals, back in the day.” The words are tinged with a bitterness at odds with the weary smile that quirks his lips. “So they’d carry the stigma of their crimes for the rest of their lives.”

“Is that how you see these?” She reaches across his body to curl her hand around his elbow, rubbing her thumb over the deck of playing cards fanned out across his skin. “A modern day mark of Cain?”

His smile fades. “Maybe.”

She shakes her head. “I seem to remember the story was that Cain murdered his brother.” He stares at her in the half-light, his expression softening only when she reaches up to touch his face, curving her palm around his whisker-roughened jaw. “You saved yours.”

Entangled with him as she is, she feels as well as hears his slow exhalation of breath. “You never told me you were such a diligent bible student,” he says lightly, turning his head to press a lingering kiss to her palm.

The scrape of his whiskered chin sends a wave of gooseflesh up her arm, raising every single tiny hair on her skin. “Well, I was a good girl when I was at school.” Giving him a smile, she shifts closer, her hand splayed low on his stomach, her thumb idly circling his navel. “Back in the day, as the saying goes.”

“Is that so?” The corners of his mouth twitch, the darkness in his eyes replaced by a glint of something quite different. “My, how times change.”

Much later, after he has fallen asleep – easily, for a change, it seems - she lies awake, listening to the rhythmic sound of his breathing. Her body is wrapped almost protectively around his, her bare breasts against his back, her thighs curved around his, her hand resting lightly on his hip. In the darkness, the smooth heat of his body pressed against her, she can no longer tell the difference between inked and unadorned skin, between the man he once was and the man he has become.

And she’s glad.

~*~