Author: neversince [archive]
Word Count: 813
Summary: She met him after the escape because she needed to escape too. Sequel to Drowned.
Notes: This is the sequel to Drowned and picks up where that one left off. If you haven't read it, you'll be confuzzled.
He sleeps spread out, practically diagonal across the bed. At 1:30 in the morning, Sara's too tired to wonder whether it's some sort of psychological rebellion to being relegated to a four foot by six foot bunk in his cell. After an hour of gentle nudging that turns into desperate pushing in attempt to get him back over to his side of the bed, Sara gives up completely and swings her legs over the side of the mattress.
Bare feet hit the plush carpet with no sound and when her slight weight lifts off the mattress, Michael doesn't move. His breathing deep and even, Sara stands watching for a moment, unwilling to berate herself any more for what has happened.
In the sparse light filtering in from a gap in the hotel-heavy curtains, Sara finds her shirt and jeans and puts them on. She stuffs her bra into her bag. She thinks briefly about Elizabeth, her college roommate who came home many mornings with her bra in her purse.
Sara contemplates leaving as she stands in the middle of the room, sloppily dressed, bag in her hand. She stares at the gap in the curtains, can tell the light filtering in is the artificial yellow of a street lamp, not the natural white of the moon. She refuses to look at Michael again. He may sway her decision.
She opts for the bathroom, taking her bag with her. The fluorescent light casts dark shadows under her eyes and gives her complexion a sallowness she hopes isn't really there. With what she's been through the past few days and the fact that she doesn't seem to sleep anymore, Sara wouldn't be too surprised to learn this is just her now.
There's a brush in the bottom of her bag and she pulls it through her hair almost angrily. The tangles are there because of Michael, her shirt is wrinkled because of Michael, her bra is in her bag because of Michael. Everything is because of Michael and that likely includes the dark circles and pasty skin.
Part of her hates him. Really hates him. Michael Scofield got under her skin deliberately, for whatever reason, and continued to pull the strings. He succeeded in everything he tried to do, including seducing her, and Sara has no one to blame but herself. She knew it was happening from the beginning. She knew it was happening last night. Michael was methodical - chipping away at her defenses the way he chipped away at his cell until he finally broke through.
And she knew the whole time. Sara doesn't know whether to laugh or cry. She stares at herself another minute, two, and forces herself to stop asking how and why. She let Michael break her because she needed to be broken. She met him after the escape because she needed to escape, too.
She sort of hates him, though.
She sort of loves him, too.
When she steps out of the bathroom the clock glows 2:52 and the bed is empty. Sara sees the dark shape of him almost exactly where she stood and debated her escape.
"Are you okay?"
His voice is gruff and he seems sleep-heavy; confused. She speaks softly because it seems like she should.
"I'm fine. Can't sleep."
It's a half-truth; she's sure she'd have faded into some kind of oblivion if Michael had given her more room on the bed, but its pointless to make him feel bad about it. She doesn't sleep well anymore, not for a while now, and a few hours at a time in the amount of space that might be afforded to a cat should seem like a luxury.
Michael has replaced his pants but not his shirt and Sara can see the dark smudges that represent the tattoo. The room is mostly shadow and the ink is darker still, making Michael look as if he's cloaked in a soft blanket, only his face and neck uncovered.
"You should go back to sleep," Sara says, because how easily they fall back into their roles.
But Michael shakes his head and steps closer, reaching out and taking her bag from her shoulder. "Did I ruin your escape?"
He's trying to sound light but failing miserably - Sara hears the hurt lacing his tone and represses the urge to reassure him. He doesn't get reassurance. He owes her.
"I hadn't decided," she says honestly.
Michael moves closer, each hand ghosting up to encase both her shoulders.
"Don't," he says huskily, and Sara has to avoid his eyes. If she looks into his eyes, she won't. If he asks her again, she won't. If he says her name, she won't.
Two fingers tilt her chin up, forcing her gaze to his. He blinks earnestly and says, "Sara..." and then leans in and kisses her.
She might stay forever.