~*~



She’s not sure what she was expecting. The words safe house conjure up a picture of a dark and fortified hideout, certainly not this plain but clean wooden house in the outer suburbs. Once inside, though, the surroundings more than meet her expectations. It’s sparsely furnished, with heavy curtains at every barred window. “How did you find this place?”

Michael looks at her as though the answer should be obvious. “I took out a three month lease under another name the week before I was arrested.”

Ask a silly question, she thinks. “Is there anything you didn’t plan in advance?”

His eyes lock with hers. “A few things.”

She clears her throat. “Nice suit,” she says hastily, then wants to bite off her tongue. Perhaps it would have just been easier to tell him she can’t stop looking at him, that the sight of him dressed as though he’s just left a board meeting makes her feel as though someone has removed the bones from her legs.

He flushes, or perhaps she just imagines it. “Thank you.”

She glances at Lincoln, waiting in the hallway, a casually disarrayed contrast to his younger brother. “Not your style?”

He smirks. “Not really.”

She watches him as he walks away, then calls after him softly, “You’re limping.”

“Cop got off a lucky shot,” he informs her over his shoulder. “It’s not too bad.”

"I'll take a look at it for you." Without waiting for Lincoln's reply, she looks at Michael, now watching his brother with anxious eyes. “I don’t suppose you’ve got a first aid kit here?”

As an answer, he walks to the far end of the main living area and begins to rummage in a large duffel bag. A minute later, he holds up a store-bought first aid kit. She stares at him.

“Tell me - you were a Boy Scout at one point in your life, weren’t you?” It feels perfectly natural to be joking with him, to fall back into their teasing banter, and she’s not sure she likes it. She wants – she needs – for him to understand how much damage he left behind.

“Nope.” He flashes her a quick, faintly nervous smile. “I could never get used to the uniform.” He looks down at the kit in his hands, then sucks in an audible breath as he lifts his eyes to hers. “Do you want to talk about – all of this?”

“Not really.”

A subtle flicker of disappointment dances across his face. “We have to, at some point.”

“I agree, and we will.” She can’t believe she sounds so matter-of-fact when she’s struggling to deal with the unexpected twist her afternoon has taken. Between her happy-go-lucky friend pulling a gun on her to Michael Scofield kissing her in the back of a rusty van, she’s having a little trouble keeping her balance. Giving herself an inner shake, she takes the first-aid kit from his hands and begins to look through it. “But right now, I just want to make sure that neither you or your brother are about to die from septicaemia.” Not only that, she thinks, Lincoln has obviously resigned himself to being her patient once more and is standing only a few feet away. She and Michael need to have that conversation, but she doesn't plan on doing it with an audience.

Michael's stubborn expression is all too familiar. “I’m fine.”

She gives him a “I’ll be the judge of that” look she’s quite sure he’ll recognise, then gestures for Lincoln to sit at the small kitchen table. “Where's the wound?"

He points to a spot halfway up his thigh, and she quickly debates the best way to go about this. Something about this setting makes what she's about to do feel less clinical and much more personal. It's not that it makes her uncomfortable, but perhaps she'll let her patient decide. "You can either roll them up or take them off.”

Lincoln gives her a look, then begins to roll up the leg of his loosely fitted trousers. She washes her hands at the kitchen sink, entirely too conscious of Michael's intent gaze watching her. A few minutes later, she draws up another chair beside Lincoln, then gently touches the edges of the bullet wound on his thigh. Michael, now crouched at her side, is still watching her every move. “How did you stop the bleeding?”

The question is directed at both of them, but she's not surprised when Michael answers. “Cayenne pepper.”

Taken aback, she lifts her eyes to his, instantly feeling the impact of his gaze like a kick to the stomach. “Very resourceful,” she finally manages to say, and means it.

He looks at her as if he wants to say something more, then glances at his brother. He gets to his feet and excuses himself, mumbling something about the bathroom.

Lincoln watches him go, then turns to look at her with blue eyes that are both eerily similar and completely different to his brother’s. “Just so you know,” he begins in the slow, dry drawl she remembers well, “following you was all his idea.”

She smiles as she begins to clean the bullet wound as gently as she can. “I’m sure it was.”

“Not that I put up much of a fight once I recognised your date.”

She feels her lips purse as though she’s been sucking lemons. “He wasn’t my date.”

“Glad to hear it.”

She shakes her head as she reaches for a fresh dressing. If she didn’t know better, she’d think Lincoln Burrows was indignant on his brother’s behalf. “He told me his name was Lance.”

Lincoln shrugs. “I don’t know his real name, but like I said, he’s definitely not one of the good guys.”

She nods. “Trust me, I believe you.” Her job done, she sits back on the hard wooden chair. “You’re all set.”

“Thanks, Doc.”

She pulls off the gloves she’d found in Michael’s first aid kit – despite his denials, she swears he was a Boy Scout at some point – and gives her patient a quick smile. “Apart from the leg, you look much better than the last time I saw you.”

He doesn’t return her smile. “A lot’s changed since then.”

“I know,” she says, feeling the sudden urge to reach out to him, to connect. “I heard about your son, and I’m sorry. At least you know that Veronica will do everything she can to help him.”

His whole body stiffens, and he looks at her with dark, hollow eyes. “Veronica’s dead.”

She stares at him in shock, her stomach lurching coldly as her mouth opens and a single thick and stupid word comes out. “What?”

His throat works as he gulps down an unsteady breath. “They killed her,” he whispers, his eyes glittering. “They killed her and there wasn’t a fucking thing I could do to stop it.”

Pushing away her own distress, she reaches for his hand before he’s finished speaking - his voice strangled by the harsh, ugly truth of his words - then shifts her chair closer to his, recognising all the signs of delayed shock. “I’m so sorry,” she whispers as she gingerly slides one arm around his shoulders, feeling useless and helpless. “I’m so, so sorry.” He sits immobile in the circle of her arm, his head bowed, and she tries again. “This wasn’t your fault, Lincoln.”

“The hell it wasn’t.” The words are almost a growl, and she feels the tremor that runs through him.

“She believed in you.” She gently rubs the hard curve of his shoulder with one hand as she glances towards the other end of the room, willing Michael to reappear. She suspects this is a discussion that is long overdue. “Helping you was her choice.”

He swears as he lets out a shuddering breath that finally catches on a rough sob. He covers his eyes with one hand, and she tightens her arm around him, trying to hold him steady. When his shoulders begin to silently shake, all her feelings of helplessness and awkwardness fall away, and she holds him as close as he’ll let her, murmuring platitudes she knows he’s not really hearing. He struggles to gain control over himself and her heart breaks for him, for his son, for Veronica, for everything that’s been stolen from a man who was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time.

After several minutes, he stops shaking, pressing the heels of both hands hard against his eyes. “Fuck this shit,” he mutters, then shoots her an embarrassment glance, his eyes red. “Uh, sorry.”

That he should care about swearing in her presence in such circumstances makes her want to smile. She knows next to nothing about their mother, but she knows now that the woman raised both her sons very well. “That’s okay.”

He pulls away from her slightly, and she lets her arm fall away from his shoulders. He gets slowly to his feet, testing his weight on his left leg, then gives her a sombre smile. “Thanks, Doc. For everything.”

She tucks her feet underneath her chair and looks up at him. “You’re welcome.” She likes him, she realises with a start, likes him for himself as much as for his brother.

He glances towards the end of the room - she realises then that they are both thinking of Michael - and mutters in a low voice, “He’s a fucking genius, but he’s got a lot to learn about a lot of things.” He watches her face carefully as he speaks. “You’ve got every right to be angry-”

She can’t stop the words from falling out of her mouth. “You got that right.”

“What you need to know,” he goes on as if she hasn’t spoken, his voice still rough with lingering grief, “is that everything he did, he did to save me.”

“I know that.”

He lifts one dark eyebrow. “You know, but I don’t think you understand. Not yet, anyway.” With that cryptic remark, he turns away and walks slowly from the room, moving towards the front entrance. She hears him checking the locks on the door a few seconds later, and she knows that their conversation is over. She stares after him, her thoughts darting in a dozen different directions. Both men had lost so much, and yet they hadn't hesitated to put their freedom at risk to spirit her away to safety. She's breaking several laws just by being here, she's sure, but she suddenly doesn't care.

“How’s his leg?”

She starts at the sound of Michael’s voice, glancing up to see him standing a few feet from her. He’s looking at her with an expression that’s both wary and eager, and she feels a flutter of sensation just below her heart. “He’ll be okay.”

He smiles, and she sees his shoulders sag in relief. “Good.” He takes a step towards her, then stops, suddenly looking much younger, his face soft and uncertain. “How about you, Sara?”

She swallows hard, but her throat still feels dry. “What about me?”

His gaze travels her face, lingering on her mouth before finding her eyes. “Will you be okay?”

They look at each other for a moment in silence. She’s still so angry – with him, with herself – and it still hurts so much and she knows she should just turn on her heel and walk away but she can’t and she won’t. She’s not a coward and she’s finished with running away. “I will be."

He smiles once more, but it's a very different smile this time. “Good,” he says again, then hesitates, his gaze searching her face. Finally - perhaps finding what he was seeking - he takes another step towards her, his eyes never leaving hers. “Let's talk.”





~*~

~*~




“How about you, Sara?”

She swallows hard, but her throat still feels dry. “What about me?”

His gaze travels her face, lingering on her mouth before finding her eyes. “Will you be okay?”

They look at each other for a moment in silence. She’s still so angry – with him, with herself – and it still hurts so much and she knows she should just turn on her heel and walk away but she can’t and she won’t. She’s not a coward and she’s finished with running away. “I will be."

He smiles once more, but it's a very different smile this time. “Good,” he says again, then hesitates, his gaze searching her face. Finally - perhaps finding what he was seeking - he takes another step towards her, his eyes never leaving hers. “Let's talk.”

She stares at him, vaguely aware that her hand is suddenly gripping the edge of the wooden kitchen table. “How long did you say you’d planned to stay here?”

“Couple more hours, maybe.”

Feeling as though she’s about to take the first step out onto a high wire, she takes a deep breath and pats the empty chair beside her. “We’d better get started, then.”

He laughs, taking her by surprise. The sound washes over her skin like velvet, making her shiver despite the heat. “Whatever you say, Doc.” Dropping gracefully into the chair next to her, he looks at her intently, the amusement in his eyes fading, replaced by the same nervousness she feels whirling in the pit of her own stomach. “How-” he stops, frowning, then begins again with a quiet, “Where did you want to start?”

“Actually, before we talk, I have something else in mind.” Ignoring the speculative look he gives her - and the fact that her pulse is suddenly racing - she leans past him and plucks the first aid kit from the table. “Can you take your left shoe off, please?”

He glances down at his left foot, then up at her. “I’m fine,” he repeats, but she merely shakes her head.

“So you keep saying,” she retorts, doing her best not to smile, realizing that she’s actually missed arguing with him. “Take it off, please.”

Blowing out an audible breath, he bends over to unlace his boot. She watches him as she pulls on a fresh pair of gloves, not bothering to fight the urge to admire the supple lines of his body. There are still far too many unanswered questions hanging between them, but she’s very tired of pretending that she doesn’t want him. Of course, she thinks, that doesn’t mean she’s going to allow herself to do anything about it.

She studies his face as he slowly tugs off his sock, and she sees his wince as he looks at his remaining toes. “Has it been bothering you?”

“A little, but that’s not it.” He shrugs. “I haven’t really noticed them for a while,” he says softly. “I guess I forgot how bad they looked.”

The quiet resignation in his voice makes her heart ache, and she quickly motions for him to put his bare foot up on the edge of her chair. He hesitates, and she gives him an exasperated look. “Please?”

He finally does as she asks, and she touches the suture marks lightly, remembering the shock of having so much of his blood on her gloves, his teary refusal to tell her who had assaulted him. A dozen questions are suddenly burning on her tongue, but she just offers a mild, “They’re healing nicely.”

He looks relieved. “Thanks to you.”

“And no thanks to you, I’m guessing.” She gently presses her fingertips against the ball of his foot, just below where his two smallest toes used to be. “Too much running in those hard shoes won’t have done you any favours.”

His mouth twitches in a half-smile. “Couldn’t be helped.”

She can’t stop herself from smiling in return. “I guess not.” She nods at his foot. “You’re done.”

He bends down and picks up his sock from the floor. “Physical’s over?”

“Not quite.” She takes a deep breath. “How’s your back?”

He looks up at her, frowning. “Why?”

“The last time I looked, you had a second degree burn on your back.” She leans forward in her chair, elbows resting on her thighs, her gloved hands dangling loosely between her knees. “I’m guessing that’s also something you haven’t really had time to think about?”

“It’s fine.”

She ignores the broken record routine. “May I see it, please?”

His gaze slides away from hers, his face flushing as his hand brushes down the front of his crumpled shirt. “I don’t think that’s such a good idea.”

She knows exactly what he’s thinking because she’s thinking it too – they both know how this particular scenario ended last time - but she’s a doctor and she’d like to think that she’s stronger than the impulses of her flesh. “It’s okay, Michael, it won’t be anything I haven’t seen before.” It’s the truth, but that doesn’t explain why her heart rate is suddenly twice as fast as it should be.

Without saying another word, he begins to loosen his tie, his eyes looking anywhere but at her. As she watches him, she’s gripped by the sudden urge to put her hands on top of his and slowly slip the knot of his tie undone. She sits back in her chair, putting some much-needed space between them, realizing too late that she had underestimated the strength of those impulses.

He pulls his tie over his head, drops it onto the table without ceremony, then begins to unbutton his shirt, still not looking at her. The contrast between now and then hits her like a slap in the face. There’s no smiling seduction here, only a growing tension stretching out between them, heightening her awareness of the smallest things - the sun-touched tone of his skin, the shadows beneath his eyes, the whiskers roughening his jaw – and she knows she’s no more immune to him now than she ever was.

She gets to her feet, moving to stand behind him as he slides his shirt off his shoulders, and is glad he can’t see her face. He smells of clean sweat and lemon soap – she suddenly wonders if his trip to the bathroom was more about washing up than anything else – and beneath that she recognizes the familiar scent of his skin. Her gloved hands clench at her sides, a flash of heat rippling through her stomach.

Damn it.

She closes her eyes for a few seconds, pulling herself back into line, drawing on every single scrap of her willpower, then she opens her eyes and reaches for the first aid-kit once more.

A few seconds later she’s shaking her head, only just managing to resist the urge to click her tongue in disapproval at the sight of the bedraggled bandage on his shoulder blade. “Does it hurt?” she asks with a calm that belies the hollow ache tightening her chest. It shouldn’t surprise her, of course, because she’s never been able to see him as just a patient.

“Yes,” he says dully, looking down at his feet, and she knows the fact that he’s not fobbing her off by saying he’s fine is a very bad sign.

Holding her breath, she peels away the bandage from his skin as carefully as she can, suddenly afraid of what she’s going to find. To her great relief, despite the total lack of adequate care, it’s not as bad as she feared. The wound has begun to heal, and there’s no ulceration whatsoever, which had been one of her main concerns. She picks up a clean swab, frowning as a vague, lurking suspicion begins to take shape in her mind.

No complications with his wounds, either his toes or his burn. No sharps or insulin in the first aid kit. She thinks back to the initial readings of his blood sugar levels and his reaction – he seemed relieved, she’d told Katie - when she’d announced the positive result of his later blood test.

He hisses softly beneath his breath as she begins to clean the wound, and she can no longer hold her tongue. “How are you managing with your insulin shots?”

He stiffens under her touch. She hears him exhale, then he turns his head to look at her. “Do you want the short or the long answer?”

“The truth would be a good place to start.” She thinks she already knows what he’s going to tell her, but she wants to hear it from him.

He shifts in the chair, but he meets her gaze steadily as he says in a quiet, clear voice, “I’m not a diabetic.”

She may have half-suspected the truth, but hearing him actually say it still shocks her. She stares at him, horrified by the implications of his admission. Your body is reacting to the insulin as though you’re not a diabetic. “God damn you, Michael,” she says through suddenly clenched teeth. “I could have killed you.” She’s suddenly furious, and she’s not sure who deserves it more, him for his deception or her for ignoring her instincts.

He shakes his head. “That wouldn’t have happened.”

“How the hell could you know that?”

He gives her a sad smile. “Research, remember?”

Speechless, she just glares at him, and he quickly begins to talk again, filling the silence between them. “I needed daily access to the infirmary,” he says, his tone low and urgent, his eyes silently pleading with her to listen. To understand. “The drainage pipe beneath the grate in your office led directly to a storage room, and that room was able to be reached via a tunnel from the guards’ room.”

She stares at him, stunned. She’d heard all kinds of rumours about the scale of the escape plan, but to hear him talk about it in such a matter-of-fact manner is something altogether different.

“I’m sure the last thing you want is a chemistry lesson, but I was treating the pipes beneath the drain in your office with a corrosive every day so that it would eventually be weak enough to be smashed through.” His gaze flicks away, then back again. “The infirmary window was always our way out,” he says, his eyes once again burning into hers, “but the only thing I planned to need from you was a daily shot.”

She goes back to tending his burn, finding a small measure of distraction in the familiar movements of her hands. Finally, when the silence in the room is unbearable, she licks her dry lips and asks a question that’s been on the top ten list of things keeping her awake at night. “So all the smooth talk, all those cosy little chats?” The words feel thick and tight in her throat. “All the things you said to me?”

He looks down at his feet again. “That was just me,” he murmurs, so quietly she can hardly hear him. “That was just you and me.”

It was real, Sara. You and me. Her heart does an odd little lurch, much to her annoyance. “What about my keys?” she asks in as hard a voice as she can manage, determined not to herself be bulldozed by his goddamned charm all over again.

“Someone must have noticed that the pipe beneath your office had corroded. They replaced it with a new segment that was two inches thick.” He takes a deep breath, his back shifting beneath her touch. “The infirmary was still our only way out, so I had to find another way into your office.”

She shies away from the words another way, not wanting to discuss the kiss they’d shared in the infirmary. Not now, while he’s half-dressed and her hands are on him and her whole body is humming simply from being close to him. “And, of course, when you say we, you’re not just talking about you and Lincoln, are you?”

“No.”

She tosses the bloodied swab into the plastic dish on the table, no longer bothering to keep her voice low. “Did it ever occur to you how I might feel when it came out exactly who I’d left that door open for?”

He flinches, although whether it’s at her words or the volume of them, she has no idea. “I’m sorry.”

“Like I said on the phone, Michael,” she retorts as she covers his wound with a clean dressing. “Sorry doesn’t really cut it, not when we’re talking about people like Bagwell and Abruzzi.” Just saying their names makes her feel sick, and she knows the fact that she helped them escape – and that she allowed Michael to deceive her into doing it – is something she’ll never be able to justify.

“Abruzzi was always part of the plan,” he whispers, his eyes trained on the heavily draped kitchen window. “He was the only one with the resources to help Lincoln and I disappear once we were out.” He twists in the chair, his gaze seeking hers once more. “But Bagwell was never someone I wanted involved.”

“Then why was he?”

He sighs heavily, a distant look creeping into his eyes, as though he’s suddenly far away from her, then tells her in a flat, empty voice. “He discovered the tunnel behind my cell during the riots and threatened to go to the bulls if we didn’t bring him in on the escape.” He’s frowning now, obviously reliving Bagwell’s threats in his head, his voice hollow. “Either I went along with it and took the chance that I could still make it work, or I refused and let my brother die.”

The emptiness in his eyes makes her heart twist. “You said during the riots.” She pulls off her gloves, watching her hands as they move because it’s easier than looking at him. “Would that be while you were crawling through the pipes towards the sick bay to find me?”

She looks up at him in time to see an odd expression flicker across his face, as though that was the last thing he expected her to ask. “Yes.”

She drops the gloves into the plastic dish, then nods at his back. “You’re all done.” She knows she should ask him how he got this burn, about what he did to the Pope, about Westmoreland, but she’s tired of playing the interrogator. She doubts very much that he had anything to do with Westmoreland’s death, and she already knows that every answer will have the same core of truth at its heart – whatever he did, he did for Lincoln. She thinks of her father and whether he would ever go to such lengths to protect her, then pushes the thought of away, knowing that there are some questions to which you should never know the answer.

As though he’s sensed her train of thought, Michael clears his throat as he gingerly pulls his shirt back over his shoulders and begins to button it. “We need to get you to your father.”

She watches the graceful movements of his long fingers for a moment, knowing that she’s beyond redemption when it comes to her feelings for him. She lifts her gaze to his, and her breath catches in the back of her throat because he’s watching her, his eyes glittering with a hunger that infuses her skin with heat. “You’ve heard about his recent promotion?” she hears herself ask, barely hearing the words over the sudden rush of blood in her ears.

“Yes.” He seems to be having trouble deciding whether or not to do up the top button of his shirt, and Sara realises he’s doing exactly what she’s been doing – trying to focus on the small things in order to avoid the great big fucking unresolved thing that’s right under their noses. “I read about it in the newspaper this morning.” He aimlessly toys with his discarded tie where it lies on the table. “How do you feel about that?”

“I’m not sure.” She moves back to her chair, dropping into it without looking at him. It would take many hours to explain the complicated relationship she has with her father, hours that they didn’t really have. “But it’s what he’s always wanted.”

“What about what you want?”

She laughs, a bitter sound that makes him wince. “What I might want, Michael, and what I have to do are two very different things.” She doesn’t want to think about the one way in which she wants her life to be different, her pointless, foolish wish to go back in time and meet Michael in a café, at a bookstore, in the supermarket.

Anywhere but Fox River.

She begins to pack up the first aid kit, vaguely wondering where Lincoln has hidden himself, then thinks of their conversation. She looks at Michael, briefly torn between saying nothing and trying to let him know he could talk to her about it, then makes her decision. “Lincoln told me about Veronica,” she says softly.

His face instantly changes, his expression hardening, his eyes darkening with grief. “He was talking to her on the phone when it happened.” His eyes fill with tears but, unlike his brother, he doesn’t bother hiding them from her. “They may as well have killed her right in front of him.”

She feels the blood drain from her face. “He didn’t tell me that.” She reaches for his hand before she has time to think about it, her fingers threading through his as naturally as though she’s held his hand every day of her life. "Michael, I'm so sorry."

"Thank you." He shoots her a grateful look, his hand tightening around hers as he goes on, his voice rough with tears. “What we’re up against, it’s so much bigger than I ever could have imagined.”

She doesn’t want to ask, but she has to know. “Is my father part of it?”

He shakes his head, but not before she sees the uncertainty in his eyes. “I don’t think so.”

A hot, sinking feeling settles in the pit of her stomach. “But you don’t know for sure.”

He hesitates long enough to be saved from answering by Lincoln’s sudden reappearance. “We gotta go.” Lincoln stops in the middle of the kitchen, looking at their clasped hands, then at his brother, and Sara has the feeling he’s trying to decide whether to smirk or roll his eyes.

She starts to pull her hand away, but Michael’s fingers tighten around hers, not letting her go as he asks, “Why?”

Lincoln holds up a gadget she vaguely recognizes as a police scanner, and she wonders again if there’s an end to their seemingly bottomless bag of tricks. “The wire’s buzzing with an anonymous tip about certain escapees being spotted near Herald Street.” He looks at her. “Your friend, I’m guessing,” he says lightly, then he gives his brother a crooked smile. “I should’ve run over him again.”

“You could stay here.” Michael is watching her rather than Lincoln, his hand still curled around hers. “Call the police. Tell them that we snatched you against your will.” His voice sounds tight and hollow. Empty. “Coerced you.”

She looks at him. His lips may have said all the right things, but his eyes are saying something quite different. Just like her, he knows the gulf between what he wants and what he must do, how hard it is to do the right thing when what you want is right there for the taking.

She thinks of her father, of their last conversation and how she’d felt afterwards as though a weight had been lifted from her shoulders. The thought that he would knowingly endanger her is unthinkable, but if she’s learned nothing else over the last few weeks, it’s that hardly anything is ever really as it seems. Perhaps, she thinks, it would be safer for both of them if she kept her distance, but where did that leave her?

“Sorry to rush you, Doc, but we have to go.” Lincoln’s voice rumbles through the room. “Now.”

Feeling as though she’s watching herself from a great distance, she gently disentangles her hand from Michael’s, then reaches for the plastic kidney dish sitting on the table. Both men watch her as she puts it carefully into the first aid kit, but it’s to Michael that she utters the words that she never, ever thought she’d say. “Then let’s go.”


~*~

~*~




Feeling as though she’s watching herself from a great distance, she gently disentangles her hand from Michael’s, then reaches for the plastic kidney dish sitting on the table. Both men watch her as she puts it carefully into the first aid kit, but it’s to Michael that she utters the words that she never, ever thought she’d say. “Then let’s go.”

Michael lets out an audible breath, and in his eyes she sees both relief and apprehension, sentiments to which she can certainly relate. “Okay. We just need to put some distance behind us, then we’ll work something out.” He pulls on his sock and then his boot, not looking at her or his brother as he starts to do up the laces. “We can’t drag you along with us for too long.” His tone is guarded, giving her no hint as to what thoughts really lay beneath his careful words. “It’s too dangerous.”

She nods, realising he’s right, but also knowing that a large part of her simply wants to get in that van with him and never look back. “I know.” She finishes packing the soiled dressings in the first aid kit, making a mental note to dispose of them as soon as possible. Perhaps it should worry her that she’s fallen so naturally into fugitive mode, but she hadn’t successfully hidden a morphine addiction for over a year without learning that you never leave any evidence behind.

Michael finishes tying his boot and looks up, not at her but at his brother. Sara glances from one to the other, suddenly feeling as though she’s eavesdropping. As an only child, she had often been intrigued by the silent communication her friends had used with their siblings, even if it was only in the form of eye-rolling. The two men in the room with her aren’t saying a single word to each other, but it’s quite clear to her that an intense discussion is taking place.

Deciding that discretion is the better part of valour, she gets to her feet and brushes her hands together as though dusting them off. “I’ll be back in a minute.” Michael’s smile is both shy and grateful, and manages to do odd things to the pit of her stomach. She hastily retreats to the bathroom, carefully shutting the door behind her, a door that doesn’t do a whole lot to muffle the deep rumble of Lincoln’s voice.

“Do you trust her?”

Michael’s reply is swift. “With my life.”

She closes her eyes, pressing her forehead against the cool wood of the door, half-wishing his words didn’t mean as much to her as they did.

“How about with mine?”

Once again, Michael doesn’t hesitate. “Yes.”

They don’t speak for a moment – she hears the sound of their boots on the wooden floor, the scraping of chair legs – then Lincoln speaks again. “We need to get to Arizona.”

“And we will.”

Sara frowns at the mention of Arizona – she can’t recall it now, but she knows she’s read something in connection with Arizona and the escapees recently – then decides she’s heard enough. She uses the ancient but thankfully clean toilet, then washes her hands and splashes cold water on her face. Her reflection stares back at her from the smudged mirror, and she’s startled by how normal she looks. Perhaps, she thinks, she’s grown accustomed to feeling as though she’s suddenly stepped into an alternate universe. Then again, she’s not quite sure exactly what a woman in her position is supposed to look like.

By the time she returns to the kitchen, the tension in the room has dissipated. Lincoln is standing at the kitchen table, zipping up a large duffle bag. Slipping her hands into the back pockets of her black jeans, she looks at Michael, who is busily wiping down every surface in the kitchen with what looks very much like a baby wipe. “Can I help?”

He tosses her a grin and a white plastic packet – she was right, there’s a grinning newborn gurgling up at her from the plastic wrapping – and says, “Bathroom door handle and faucets and-” he hesitates, suddenly looking faintly embarrassed.

“And everything else,” she supplies wryly, then turns on her heel and heads straight back to the bathroom to wipe it as clean of fingerprints as humanly possible.

Two minutes later, Lincoln is ushering them both out of the house and pulling the door shut behind him, polishing the handle with the cuff of his sleeve. “Let’s go.” He steps around them, leading the way towards the van, and for the first time Sara notices the unmistakable outline of the gun beneath his shirt, just at the small of his back. She should be shocked, she supposes, or perhaps disapproving, but instead she only feels reassured.

Michael walks beside her, so close that his shoulder brushes hers. “Do you have your cell phone with you?”

She blinks, lifting up her empty hands, then remembers. “My handbag is still in the van. I dropped it on the floor when you pulled me in.” Their eyes meet, and once again she feels that jolt in the pit of her stomach.

He’d kissed her not more than an hour ago, a sweetly hesitant kiss that had felt like both an apology and a promise. At the time, she’d still been dazed by Lance’s sudden unmasking and all that had gone with it, and the feel of Michael’s lips against hers had been almost dreamlike.

Now, though, she lets herself remember, and a soft heat starts to burn low in her belly. The realisation that she wants more - much more – has her despairing over her lack of her control and her incredibly bad sense of timing. Her professional life is in tatters, her life and the lives of people she cares about are in danger, and yet she still wants Michael Scofield to kiss her so much that she can almost feel the warmth of his mouth on hers, as sure as the late afternoon sunlight pouring down on them.

He’s wearing his tie again – perfectly straight, of course - his shirt precisely buttoned, but the barely concealed hunger in his face is anything but buttoned down. His throat works as he stares at her, his eyes glowing with all the secrets he’s never told her, and she knows that he wants her as much as she wants him.

Damn it. She lowers her gaze and turns her head away, suddenly feeling as breathless as though she’d been running laps around the house, no longer able to deny that he is one danger she would welcome with open arms.

He unlocks the side door of the van, then tosses the keys to Lincoln without a word. Whether they’d discussed it while she was in the bathroom or whether Lincoln was always the designated driver, she doesn’t know, but once again the silent communication between them grabs her attention. She can’t help thinking of them as young boys, having lost both their father and their mother, having only each other. Something inside her chest tightens at the enormity of what they have done – and are still doing – for each other.

Michael puts his hand under her elbow as she climbs into the back of the van, a courteous touch she feels everywhere. She gently shakes off her reaction and his hand, then reaches down for her handbag, lying on the floor. She drops onto the bench seat as she retrieves her cell phone and peers at the screen. “Huh.”

Slamming the door behind him, Michael settles himself on the bench seat across from her. “What?”

“Four missed calls.” She scrolls through the numbers of the missed calls, and her heart begins to pound. “They’re all from my father.”

She doesn’t miss the look exchanged by the two men before Lincoln turns back to the wheel and starts the vehicle. It roars into life and they seem to be instantly in motion, making Sara wish for a seatbelt. Conscious of Michael’s steady gaze, she dials the number for her voicemail, then waits, holding her breath as her father’s voice comes on the line.

“Sara, it’s me. I’ve been trying to reach you for hours. I need you to call me as soon as you get this message.” He pauses, his breathing sounded faintly laboured. “You were right, Sara. Your new friend, the one I met at your place the other day,” he says urgently, his words almost tripping over each other. “You have to stay away from him – he’s not who he says he is.” Again he pauses, as though he’s debating whether to say more about 'Lance', but he only adds in a rush, “Call me as soon as you get this, please!”

She closes her eyes, stunned by both his admission that she’d been right and the realisation that he was now as ensnared in this whole mess as she was. Oh, Dad. Taking a deep breath, she opens her eyes to see Michael looking at her anxiously, drumming his long fingers on his knees. She keys in the code to replay the message, then reaches across and hands the phone to Michael without saying a word.

He looks startled, but hastily takes the phone from her hand, and she watches his face as he listens intently to her father’s message. She knows the exact moment he hears her father say ‘you were right’ - he closes his eyes, a tiny muscle fluttering in his jaw – and she wants very much to tell him that she’s sorry, that she knows it’s too little, too late. How much she wishes it could have been different.

But she doesn’t. That’s another conversation for another time, because she has to keep believing that there will be another time. “I have to call him,” she says as soon as he switches off the phone and flips it shut.

“I know.” He leans forward, his elbows on his knees, his eyes locking with hers. “But it’s highly likely that both his phone and yours are being monitored.”

She’s tempted to say something about how that hadn’t seemed to bother him when he had called her, then he’s pulling another phone from the inside pocket of his suit jacket. “Use this one. Don’t stay on for longer than a minute.”

“This is yours?”

“No,” he tells her, a smirk playing about his lips. “It belongs to Fergus Jones.”

She can’t help her answering grin. “Fergus?”

“Old grade school teacher’s name.” He leans closer, his smile fading. “Before you call your father, tell me about the conditions of your bail.”

Nothing like being jolted back to reality, she thinks. “I can’t leave the state and I have to notify the court of any change of address, however temporary.”

“That’s going to make things a little difficult,” Lincoln observes from the driver’s seat, obviously listening to every word of their conversation.

“I know.” She looks at them both in turn. “And I’m sorry.”

Michael frowns. “This isn’t your fault,” he says quietly. “You’re in this situation because of us.”

It’s not quite true - she thinks of the actual reason she’s attending a daily NA meeting – but she doesn’t want to argue semantics with him. Hopefully, that’s yet another conversation for another time.

He nods at the phone in her hand. “Call him, but be careful. They’ll be listening.”

She dials the familiar number with a trembling finger, then once again holds her breath as she waits for the sound of her father’s voice. He answers on the second ring, his greeting little more than a bark. “Hello?”

“Dad, it’s me.”

“Thank God. Where are you?”

She looks at Michael. “Somewhere safe.”

“You got my message?”

“Yes.”

“I saw your friend at the White House, Sara.” Disbelief resonates in every word. “Coming out of one of the Presidential suites with a goddamned briefcase.” He lowers his voice, and she hears the unmistakable sounds of an airport terminal in the background. “Whoever the hell he is, he’s not to be trusted.”

“Yeah, I’d already worked that one out.”

“Are you all right?”

“I’m fine.” She hesitates briefly, then decides not to say anymore on the subject of ‘Lance’, at least not until she can say it in person. “Where are you?”

“I’m catching the next flight back to Chicago.”

She frowns. “I thought you had to be in Washington for another week?”

“I’m coming home.” He sounds more agitated than she’s ever heard him. “You were right, Sara. About everything.”

“Listen, Dad,” she says quickly, putting aside his admission as something to be savoured in less precarious circumstances. “I don’t know what to do – should I come to you?”

“Yesterday, I would have said yes.” He lets out a shaky breath. “But today - Christ, I don’t know what to think. There are a few other things going on, things I can’t get into now.” He pauses. “Are you safe where you are?”

“Yes.” Michael returns her gaze steadily as she speaks, and she knows she has told her father the truth. “There might be some problems with my bail conditions, though.” She hesitates, then thinks of Michael’s warning that the lines might be tapped. “I’m not in Chicago anymore.” If anyone’s listening, perhaps the thought she’s no longer in the city will buy all of them – her father included - some breathing space.

“Damn it.” She can almost hear her father’s thoughts furiously whirring. After a few seconds, he says, “I can speak to the DA, but the court will still have to be notified that you’ve left Chicago.”

“Can you hold on for a moment, Dad?” Putting her hand firmly over the phone’s mouthpiece, she shoots a pleading look at Michael. “The court has to be notified of any change of address.”

His gaze flicks to the phone in her hand, then he says quietly, “Ask him to tell your attorney that you’re staying with him this week.”

She nods, almost longing for the days when it seemed easy to lie to her father. “Dad? I need you to tell the right people that I’m going to be staying with you for the next few days.”

“Sara-”

“Please, Dad,” she cuts off his protest, “I will be there as soon as it’s possible.”

“Okay.” His voice is suddenly muffled, as though he’s cupping his hand around the mouthpiece. “Please promise me you’ll be careful.”

“I’ll be okay, Dad.” Again she finds herself looking at Michael, her gaze drawn to him like a damned magnet. “I’m with friends.”

His vivid eyes glow as he stares at her, and she feels an answering rush of far too many emotions bubble up inside her. “Take care of yourself, Dad.” She closes her eyes, not wanting to look at Michael’s face as she says the next words. “I love you.”

“I love you too, sweetheart.”

She flips the phone shut and passes it across to Michael, again without saying a word. Feeling his eyes on her, she looks down at her hands, wanting a few minutes to herself, needing to wrap her head around everything that had happened in the last few hours.

Today had started out as such an ordinary day. She’d had toast and coffee while she read the paper, then watered her plants and done some desultory housework before heading out to her group session. Two hours later, the person she’d come to think of as a friend had pulled a gun on her instead of taking her for coffee, and her ordinary day had come to an abrupt halt.

She opens her eyes and looks across at the man who has once again snatched her from harm’s way, and she realises that despite everything – her conscience and her common sense, to mention only two - she’s not sorry she’s here with him. And she knows that this is madness, but right here, right now, it’s the only thing that makes sense. “Now what?”

Once again, a succinct reply comes from the driver’s seat. “Now we put some distance between us and them.”

“We’ll head southwest, towards St. Louis.” Michael elaborates, his gaze constantly moving, checking for traffic through the dust smeared rear window of the van before turning to watch his brother. “We need to stay off the interstates, stick to the local highways.” He gives her a rueful smile. “It’ll take longer, but it’s safer.”

“What’s in St. Louis?”

“Nothing,” he says softly. “It’s what’s in Arizona.”

Puzzled, she looks at him, then at Lincoln, whose expression is tight with frustration even in profile. She thinks of the strained conversation she overheard earlier and a memory suddenly crystallizes. There had been a newspaper article yesterday – or had it been the day before? – reporting that L.J. Burrows was being transported to Klipton Detention Centre in Arizona. “Your son?”

Lincoln nods, then dons a pair of reflective sunglasses, hiding his eyes. “Yes,” he says gruffly, and that one word tells her all she needs to know.

Her heart is pounding as she settles her shoulders against the wall of the van and stretches out her legs in front of her until her feet are almost touching Michael’s boots. She knows she should be horrified that she’s just embroiled herself in yet another break-out plan, but considering the morning she’s had, perhaps she can be forgiven for deciding to accept the inevitable, at least for now. The events of the day are conspiring against her, and she feels a sudden weariness tugging at her bones. “Let me know if you need me to drive,” she offers lightly as she tilts back her head. She closes her eyes, but not before she hears Lincoln’s chuckle and sees Michael’s broad grin.



~*~



She wakes in the darkness with a start, then quickly scrambles into a sitting position, staring around her. She’s sitting on the floor of the van – there’s a rough but clean blanket underneath her, and another one folded where her head had lain. She has no memory of moving from the bench to the floor, but she suspects she knows exactly how she got here. Flushing at the thought of Michael moving her while she slept, she peers at her watch, startled to see that it’s almost nine o’clock in the evening.

Lincoln is still in the driver’s seat, Michael beside him, and the soft murmur of their conversation is obviously not meant for her ears. She stretches out her legs and arches her back, wincing as her stiff muscles literally creak. It amazes her to think that she’s slept on worse mattresses and felt better for it - her time in India comes to mind – but then again, that had been a few years ago.

After running her hands through her hair – she’s glad there’s no mirror handy, she can only imagine what she looks like - she slowly gets to her feet and makes her way to the front of the van, arms outstretched to keep her balance. “Where are we?”

Turning his head, Michael gives her a searching look, his gaze sweeping over her face, then replies softly, “Approaching Sullivan, Missouri.”

His answer means absolutely nothing to her, except for one important point. “We’ve left Illinois?”

“A while ago.”

She fights back a yawn, feeling an odd sense of anti-climax. “Any problems getting across the state line?”

“None.”

Her stomach rumbles quietly, making her grateful for the van’s noisy transmission. Leaning across to the bench seat, she rummages through her handbag, smiling to herself when her fingers close over her target. Hooking her arm around the back of Michael’s seat, she stretches out her arm into the front cabin, her palm upturned. “Gum?”

Lincoln looks at her over his shoulder. “What flavour is it?”

She studies the packet in the half-light “Uh, sugar free grape.”

He smirks and mutters something about ‘girl gum’ as Michael takes the packet from her hand, the brush of his fingertips against her palm making her stomach clench. “Thank you,” he says quietly, his eyes searching her face once more, his mouth curving with the hint of a smile. “Don’t worry about him, he’s just a gum snob.” She watches as he deftly unwraps two pieces – it irks her that she’s as mesmerised as ever by the graceful movements of his hands – then drops the packet back into her palm. “Are you hungry?”

“Starving,” she admits without hesitation. She hadn’t eaten lunch before she’d gone to her afternoon group session, which is why she’d so readily agreed to ‘Lance’s’ suggestion they grab a coffee. More fool her, she thinks. “Will we be stopping sometime soon?”

“Hadn’t planned on it,” Lincoln replies tersely, his teasing manner falling away.

She studies him carefully. His hands are tight on the steering wheel, his body language painfully rigid, his gaze narrowed against the occasional glare of oncoming headlights. She looks at Michael, sees the exhaustion in his eyes, and takes an educated guess. Both of them are running on nothing more than adrenalin, and when they hit the wall, it’s not going to be pretty. “When’s the last time either of you slept for more than an hour?”

They exchange a quick glance, then Michael shrugs. “It’s been a while. A day, maybe two.”

Her arm still curled around the back of Michael’s seat, she crouches down between them, feeling uncomfortably like an impatient child being taken on an outing. “It’s highly likely you’re both suffering from sleep deprivation.”

Lincoln gives Michael an unreadable – to her at least – look, then says shortly, “It’s fine.”

Silence fills the van, then finally Michael leans back in his seat until his shoulders are resting against her arm, tilting his head to look her in the eye. “What did you have in mind?” he asks in a low tone that manages to be both wholly innocent and laden with insinuation.

She stares at him for a few seconds, feeling the warmth of him against her arm, then swallows hard, her throat suddenly dry. “There has to be an out of the way place we could stay for a few hours,” she glances at Lincoln, if only to stop herself from staring at Michael as though she’s dying of thirst and he’s the last bottle of water on the shelf. “At least long enough for the two of you to get some sleep.”

Lincoln shakes his head. “No offence, Doc, but I’d rather just keep moving.”

“Both of you need rest and food,” she persists, suspecting she probably sounds more fishwife than medical practitioner, but not particularly caring. “Your reflexes are probably shot to hell and are only going to get worse.”

Michael frowns. “Even sleepy backwaters have TVs and radios, Sara.” He leans closer, close enough for her to smell the sweet scent of the grape-flavoured gum she'd given him. “We can’t take the risk.”

“You can stay in the van while I do the talking.” She gently touches his shoulder, suppressing the urge to shake some sense into him. “It’s not going to do L.J. any good if we end up wrapped around a tree.”

The brothers exchange yet another quick glance that means God-knows-what (although she can guess at several things, none of them flattering to herself), then Lincoln sighs loudly. “Fine.”

Without pulling away from her touch – her hand is still resting on his shoulder, she can feel the curve of muscle and bone beneath her palm – Michael picks up the suit jacket draped over his knee and pulls out a folded AAA map of Missouri.

She bites back yet another Boy Scout remark and asks mildly, “When did you pick that up?”

“We stopped for gas while you were sleeping.” He unfolds the map and scans it for a moment, then looks at his brother. “There’s a one-star motel about ten miles from here.”

“I have some cash-,” Sara starts to say, but he shakes his head.

“Thanks, but it’s not the money. One-star means inattentive staff, and that’s exactly what we want.” He slips his hand into his trouser pocket and produces a wad of cash like a magician pulling a damned rabbit from a hat. Her eyes widen, but she says nothing as he counts out two hundred dollars in fifty dollar notes, then offers them to her with a wry smile. “This should be more than enough for one night.”

She takes the money, determined not to ask how he happens to have what looks like several hundred dollars left over. “Oh, and you might need this,” he adds, reaching down to pick something up from the floor beside his feet. It’s a dark blue baseball cap, and as he passes it to her – his wry smile becoming almost a smirk – she shakes her head.

“This is your idea of a disguise?”

Definitely a smirk now, she thinks. “Yep.”

"Good grief." Maybe it’s because she’s tired, probably because of her spectacularly and randomly fucked up day, quite possibly because being this close to him makes her feel as though she’s just tossed back a glass of champagne in one gulp. Whatever the reason, she grins at him, then starts to laugh. “I’m amazed you’ve lasted this long.”


~*~


Twenty minutes later, after a quick trip to a battered vending machine, she dumps an armful of potato chips and candy and – God help her, Twinkies – onto the cheap plywood desk in the corner of the room, then fixes Michael with a defiant glare. “But I slept in the car.”

Hands on his hips, Michael stares at her for a few seconds, then shakes his head. “You are not sleeping on the floor.”

Sara blows out a frazzled breath and tries very hard not to look at the two double beds crammed into the small motel room. Her nerves are still jangling from the checking-in process – because even in a backwater, as Michael put it, who pays with cash in this day and age? – and the last thing she needs is an argument, especially one fraught with so many emotional landmines and about much more than observing polite manners. “I’m not the one who needs sleep.”

“Please take the other bed,” he orders gently as he loosens his tie, his gaze skittering away from hers. “I’ll share with Linc.”

She glances at Lincoln, but he merely rolls his eyes and strolls into the adjoining bathroom, shutting the door firmly behind him. Left alone with Michael, she drops her handbag onto the second bed – her bed – and runs a distracted hand through her hair, feeling more awkward than she has for a very long time. Without looking at him, she knows the exact stance of his body, the tilt of his head as he watches her, the way he’s flexing his hands, as though he wants to do a dozen different things but can’t bring himself to do any of them. Finally, unable to bear the silence any longer, she reaches for a bag of pretzels and tosses them to him, then picks a bag of potato chips at random for herself.

He looks at his feet, then he lifts his eyes to hers. “This isn’t how I wanted things to be,” he murmurs, his voice low and gentle and more than a little miserable.

She shrugs, rubbing the sharp edge of the bag of chips between her fingertips, because it’s a safer option than giving into the temptation of taking three steps and putting her arms around him. “I know,” she says, and she does. This is not what how either of them envisaged they might meet again, although she suspects her imaginings involved far more yelling on her part than Michael’s ever did. “It doesn’t matter.” The placating words come easily, not because she doesn’t want to kick him when he’s down, but because she’s no longer sure if it does matter, not anymore.

By the time Lincoln returns to the room, she’s eaten half a bag of chips and is sitting on the edge of the bed, taking off her shoes. Michael is perched on the edge of the wooden desk, absentmindedly eating pretzels and listening to the police scanner. He has it turned down to an almost inaudible level, and she wonders if his hearing is as acute as the rest of his senses. Not for the first time, she wishes she’d done more research into his condition. Not that she didn’t do a healthy amount of digging at the time, but she’s as far from understanding the subtleties of his mind as she ever was.

Lincoln looks over the selection of snack food, then at the police scanner, then at his brother. “Anything?”

“Nothing about Sullivan, Missouri,” Michael answers as he pushes himself away from the desk. “Have you got the other cell phone?”

Lincoln pulls a silver phone out of the pocket of his trousers – Sara has to wonder just how many prepaid cell phones they’re carrying – and hands it to his brother, then turns back to the pile of junk food on top of the desk. Grabbing several packets of potato chips and a king-sized candy bar, he gives her a smile as he drops onto the opposite bed. “Thanks, Doc.”

“You’re welcome,” she says automatically, her gaze still trained on Michael as he scrolls through the functions on the cell phone in his hand. As though feeling her eyes on him, he turns to look at her, the steady movement of his thumb stilling. She nods towards the phone. “What now?”

He darts a glance at his brother, and she sees something in his expression close in on itself. “Just making some discreet enquiries about alternative transportation.”

She frowns. “Why?” She glances towards the curtained window. “Are you expecting problems with the van?” He hesitates long enough for her to regret the question, and she holds up her hand. “Forget I asked.”

He looks pained. “Sara-”

‘It’s okay, Michael,” she says flatly as she gets to her feet. “I know my being here is complicating things. Just do what you have to do.” Without waiting for him to answer, she walks quickly to the bathroom and shuts the door behind her. Putting down both toilet seats – with a brief pang of longing for her single-female apartment – she sits and puts her head in her hands, overcome by a sudden wave of confused despair.

She’s still furious with him – she can feel the anger humming beneath the surface of her thoughts like a flickering florescent light – but there’s far too many other emotions pressing in on her, making it harder and harder to cling to her resentment.

She could spend days, maybe even weeks, tallying up the balance sheet when it comes to Michael Scofield. He saved her life today, but her life wouldn’t have needed saving if she’d never met him. He risked everything to come for her, but he’d already asked the same of her. She likes to think that - in another life - she would have been just as attracted to him, but this is the life they have and she can’t bear to think too much about what’s real and what is simply wishful thinking.

Because she’s no longer sure she cares.



~*~



The light in the main room is out by the time she leaves the bathroom, and she’s glad. She walks carefully towards the faint outline of the bed furthest from the door, doing her best not to look to her left. She pulls back the bedspread and the tightly tucked sheet, smoothing her hand over the limp pillow.

Turning her back towards the other bed, she reaches for the hem of her sweater, then hesitates, suddenly feeling ridiculously puritanical. She tries to shake it off, telling herself that it’s too hot to wear the sweater to bed and that she’s wearing a both a bra and a perfectly decent camisole underneath. However, common sense and logic are being steadily strangled by an increasingly restless sexual hunger, leaving her torn between burying her head in the pillow and screaming or dragging Michael out of the other bed and into hers, crowded conditions be damned.

She does neither, of course. Saying several colourful words in her head, she takes a steadying breath and pulls her sweater over her head, dropping it onto the foot of the bed. Climbing between the hopefully clean sheets, she punches the pillow once, very hard. Rolling onto her side, she tells herself that she can’t possible feel Michael watching her, and knows that she’ll never be able to fall asleep.

She does, though, and sometime during the night, she comes half-awake, frowning into the darkness until her eyes adjust. Lying perfectly still, she hears the soft sound of male voices. Turning her head, she sees the vague outline of one of them – Lincoln, she thinks – sitting on the edge of the bed.

Michael’s whisper drifts through the darkness. “She’s much more than that.”

“Yeah, I figured as much, and I understand, trust me.” There’s a heavy sigh. “But I need to get this done now.”

“You can’t do it alone.”

“I can move faster by myself, Michael.” Lincoln stands, his voice low. “She’s right. We have to do what we have to do.”

Michael says nothing in reply, then she hears Lincoln moving towards the bathroom, closing the door carefully behind him before he turns on the light. The thin outline of the bathroom glows along the edges of the closed door as Sara turns her face to the wall once more, not wanting them to know she’s awake. Her thoughts are racing, Michael’s words – she’s much more than that – playing on a loop in her head and again, she’s sure she’ll never be able to sleep. Again, her body has other ideas. When she next opens her eyes, the light in the room has changed, the darkness turning to a soft grey. She rolls over, then clutches the sheet to her chest, startled.

Michael is awake and dressed and sitting on the edge of the other bed, watching her. His expression is somber, but his smile is warm. “Morning.”

The smile both putting her at ease and making her feel even more uncomfortable, she pulls her left arm out from beneath the covers to peer at her watch, but she can’t make out the time. “Uh, morning?” Sitting up - and still clutching the sheet to her chest because he’s looking at her now, not just watching her, and she’s an idiotic prude - she peers around the room, then through the open door of the bathroom. Both rooms are empty. She looks back at Michael. “Where’s Lincoln?”

He hesitates. “He’s gone to do some groundwork.”

“Gone? As in gone gone?”

“Yes.”

She digests this for few seconds, then gives him a curious look. “Are we going to hitch our way through Missouri?”

He shakes his head. “The van is still parked at the back of the motel.”

“So Lincoln’s hitching, is he?”

He smothers a laugh, and shakes his head a second time. “No, we made other arrangements during the night.”

“But how-”she looks at his face, then breaks off before she lets herself ask a question to which she doesn’t want to know the answer. “Fine,” she mutters in frustration. “So, what happens now?”

“If everything goes according to plan, I’ll be meeting up with him in two days’ time.”

She thinks of the late night – or had it been early morning? - conversation she’d overheard. “Just you?”

“Yes.” He looks at her intently, his gaze sweeping across her face. “Violating your bail will only draw more attention to you, and I think you’ve attracted enough of the wrong attention as it is.”

As unsettled and apprehensive as she’s feeling, she can’t help laughing softly. “I think it’s a little late to be worried about that, don’t you?” The laughter dies in her throat as the full implication of his words hits home. “If I’m not going with you to meet Lincoln, exactly what do you intend to do with me?”

He blinks as a faint hint of colour stains his skin, and Sara feels a matching rush of heat creep up the back of her neck. She hadn’t intended to start the morning with a double entendre, but she has and there it is and there’s no taking it back. “Get you somewhere safe, but that’s something we can discuss once we’re on the road.” He gets to his feet, carefully not looking at her. “We should go. The sun will be up soon.”

“You should have woken me earlier.”

He glances down at her, his expression softening. “You looked as though you needed the sleep.”

“Thank you.” The words are out of her mouth before she even knows what she’s thanking him for.

He walks over to the desk to pick up his tie, talking to her over his shoulder. “Did you want to shower before we go?”

Unlike her earlier words, his question doesn’t even remotely resemble a double entendre, but her mind still goes utterly blank for a few seconds. She gives herself a mental shake, then forces a smile she hopes disguises the internal chaos of her head and her heart. “Um, okay.”

“I kept a dry towel aside for you,” he adds, seemingly intent on gathering up the leftover potato chip packets.

“Thanks.” Scrambling out of bed with less grace than she’d like, she grabs her handbag from the floor beside the bed and beats a hasty retreat to the tiny bathroom. Once inside, she stares at the closed door for a long moment, then flips the lock, knowing it’s more to save her from herself than from any intent of Michael’s. She slips out of her clothes and drapes them carefully across the small sink, and tries not to dwell on the fact that Michael is in the next room and she’s completely naked and they’re alone – really alone – for the first time.

Goddamn it.

It’s not often she uses her yoga relaxation techniques in the shower, but desperate times call for desperate measures. It works to a certain degree, as does the deliberately cool temperature of the water, but her nerves are still sparking as she quickly dries herself. Blowing out a frustrated breath, she wraps the now damp towel around herself and picks up her oversized handbag. As she begins to search through its jumbled contents, she has a suddenly flash of memory, of Katie teasing her about being able to carry everything but the kitchen sink in ‘that giant bag of yours’. Her heart twists. She misses Katie, she thinks as she avoids looking her mirrored reflection in the eye. She misses her very much.

She misses a lot of things.

After running her fingers through her damp hair, she gratefully seizes the perfumed body spray lying at the bottom of her bag, then reluctantly begins to dress in yesterday’s clothes. Wrinkling her nose at the thought of wearing yesterday’s underpants – even if she’s always doubted a lace thong qualifies as underpants anyway - she hesitates for a moment, then reaches for the small bar of soap in the shower. It’s nothing she hasn’t done when she’s been camping or travelling and it has nothing at all to do with Michael Scofield whatsoever.

Nothing.

Five minutes later, her underwear damp but clean, three pilfered towels and a bar of soap in her hand, she opens the bathroom door to Michael’s look of surprise. He'd obviously been expecting her to take much longer. “Are you ready to go?”

She nods as she scoops her shoes up from the floor. “Definitely.”

A tiny smile tugs at his lips as he takes the towels from her and shoves them into the duffel bag on the desk, and she suspects he knows exactly why she wants to get out of this cramped room. She briefly debates picking up a pillow from the nearest bed and lobbing it at his head, but settles for shooting him a dignified glance as she slips on her shoes and heads for the door.

Her grand exit is ruined by the fact that he makes her wait while he scans the deserted motel grounds, then motions for her to walk outside. He pulls the door shut behind her, then they walk in silence to the rear of the hotel where Lincoln had parked the van the night before. She can’t deny breathing a sigh of relief at the sight of it – despite Michael’s reassurances, she’d been half-afraid they’d be stranded here – and flashes him a quick smile.

He pauses mid-step, his lips parting as though he’s about to speak, but he merely returns her smile and pulls the car keys from his pocket. He opens the passenger door for her, then she watches him as he walks around to the driver’s side, her heart sinking.

They have hours of driving ahead of them – going in which direction she has no idea - just them in a car with the wide open road ahead and hundreds of law enforcement officers behind them and the undeniable fact that she feels as though she’s about to split her skin every time she looks at him. She buckles her seatbelt with an audible snap, trying and utterly failing not to watch him as he climbs into the driver’s seat, and she knows that it’s going to be a very long drive.






~*~

~*~





They have hours of driving ahead of them – going in which direction she has no idea - just them in a car with the wide open road ahead and hundreds of law enforcement officers behind them and the undeniable fact that she feels as though she’s about to split her skin every time she looks at him. She buckles her seatbelt with an audible snap, trying and utterly failing not to watch him as he climbs into the driver’s seat, and she knows that it’s going to be a very long drive.

Sara waits until he puts the key in the ignition, then asks the obvious question. “Where are we going?”

“I’ve been thinking about that,” he says lightly as the engine clunks into life. “It might be a good idea for you to call your father again.” He tosses her a quick glance. “See if any other developments have come up.”

She feels a cool finger of dread touch her spine. “What kind of developments are you expecting?”

“I don’t know,” he answers in a studiedly casual voice that does nothing to quell her apprehension. “But I want to be sure taking you back to Chicago is the best way to keep you safe.” He utters the last words with a quiet conviction that tells her he’s already given the matter a great deal of thought. Perhaps while he was watching her sleep, she thinks, and shifts uneasily in her seat.

“For now, though, we’ll keep heading west.” She feels rather than sees him look at her. “Are you hungry?”

“Yes.” She thinks of the potato chips and Twinkies stashed in his duffel bag and almost feels her stomach wince. “Some real food would be good.”

Ten minutes later, Michael flashes her a quick smile as he turns off the highway. “Does this count?”

She peers through the windscreen at the truck stop café. “This morning? You bet.” She turns to find him holding out a hundred dollar bill and the ever-present baseball cap. “What do you want to eat?”

“Anything.”

That’s helpful, she thinks but merely asks, “Coffee?”

"Definitely.”

She takes the money and jams the cap over her still-damp hair, feeling a sudden sense of donning armour before going into battle. As she reaches for the door handle, she looks at him. Given what they’ve been through, she’s almost embarrassed to ask such a basic ‘getting to know you’ question, but there it is. “Uh, how do you take your coffee?”

“That depends on the coffee.” He glances at the truck stop’s main entrance, and a rueful smile touches his lips. “Maybe you’d better grab some cream and sugar.”

“Anything else?”

“Linc took the police scanner with him when he left this morning.” His smile fades as he says his brother’s name, his eyes darkening, and she senses there’s more to Linc’s swift departure than perhaps she’ll ever know. “It would be a good idea to pick up a few newspapers.”

He keeps the van running as she slams the passenger door, and she feels his gaze on her as she tucks the money into her pocket and walks into the truck stop with her head down and her best nonchalant expression plastered on her face. The warm scent of eggs and bacon and sausage washes over her as soon as she steps through the automatic glass doors, making her stomach quiver. Controlling the urge to immediately order one of everything to go, she snags a wire basket from inside the door of the small store adjoining the café. She has no idea what else Michael has stashed in that duffle bag of his, but it wouldn’t hurt to be over-equipped.

Carefully avoiding eye contact with her fellow early-morning customers, she grabs three different newspapers, then walks up and down the aisles, ticking off a mental list as she fills the basket. Four bottles of water. A more substantial bar of soap than the one she’d liberated from the hotel room, complete with plastic case. A tube of toothpaste and two toothbrushes. She feels as though she’s stocking up for a camping trip - something she hasn’t done for a long time – but there’s no feeling of excitement, no anticipation of the adventure to come, only a gut-wrenching paranoia that has her flinching every time someone so much as glances in her direction.

As she turns to walk towards the cashier, her gaze falls on the brightly coloured condom packets beside the toothbrushes. The thoughts that immediately spring to mind send a soft prickle of heat across her skin, and she turns away, fighting a sudden, desperate sense of inevitability. No. Not going to happen. Sleeping with him is not an option.

Standing motionless in the middle of the aisle, she wonders just who the hell she thinks she’s fooling.

She tightens her grip on the handle of the wire basket and walks out of the aisle, away from temptation. Giving a distracted smile to the cashier, she watches as he rings up her purchases, feeling strangely as though she’s triumphed over her baser instincts. There’s no way she would ever let anything happen if she didn’t have protection.

Unfortunately, it’s a short-lived victory. It takes her precisely ten seconds to remember that she has a condom – two, actually – somewhere in the depths of her bag. She says a few very bad words under her breath and briefly considers cleaning out her handbag into the nearby trash can, then gives herself a shake and hurries into the café. She orders breakfast and coffee for two to go, grabbing a handful of cream and sugar packets as she does. It seems to take forever for her order to be filled, and it’s all she can do not to drum her fingers on the counter, trying not to feel as though every single person is staring at her.

Five minutes later, she’s walking towards the van, her heart pounding, feeling as though she’s just passed some weird kind of initiation test. Congratulations, you’ve ventured out in public without being made. You’re now a bona fide fugitive.

Michael looks amused as he leans across and opens the door for her, taking in the disposable tray of coffee and food in her left hand, the plastic bag dangling from her right and the three newspapers tucked under her arm. “Get everything you wanted?”

“Uh, yes.” She tosses the baseball cap at him and he puts it on, still smiling. She stows the plastic bag filled with water and toiletries in the space behind her seat, then climbs into the van. Cradling their breakfast on her lap, she slams the door and stashes the newspapers at her feet.

A middle-aged truck driver, his face creased with sun and weariness, gives them a lingering glance as he walks in front of the van. It’s nothing out of the ordinary, a look he could have given to anyone, but it’s more than enough to rattle her. “Michael?” Her voice sounds tinny with fear.

“I know,” he says softly, and within seconds they’re moving out of the parking lot.

Ducking her head, she somehow manages to put on her seatbelt – her hands are shaking – while balancing the tray of food and coffee on her knees. “You okay to eat and drive?”

"Yes."

She adds sugar and cream to both cups of coffee – she can still feel her hands shaking - as he suddenly says, “You know one of the things I missed the most when I was inside?”

She knows the question is an attempt to distract her, to put her at ease, but that doesn’t stop a dozen different answers coming to mind, some of them enough to make her blush violently. Idiot, she tells herself. “What?”

They’re back on the highway now, Michael’s gaze flicking between the road and the rear view mirror. “Good coffee.”

She stirs his coffee, then passes it to him. A few seconds later she takes a cautious sip of her own, her lips pursing. “Well, I think you’ll be missing it for a little while longer.”

He shrugs. “Nothing could be as bad as prison coffee.”

She takes another sip, then makes another face. “I’m not sure about that.”

His cup halfway to his mouth, he gives her a look of disbelief. “Did you try the coffee at Fox River?”

The tension across her shoulders eases, a smile stretching her lips. To her surprise, it doesn’t feel forced. “If it’s any consolation, I believe the coffee in the staff lounge wasn’t much better the inmates’ blend.”

Gripping the wheel tightly with his left hand, he takes a sip, blinks, then clears his throat. “I stand corrected. There are worse things than prison coffee.”

Without saying a word, she takes the coffee cup from him and stows it back in the disposable tray. Shrugging off an uneasy feeling of domesticity, she half unwraps one of the egg and sausage biscuits she’d bought and hands it to him. He gives her an indecipherable look – perhaps also picking up on the odd vibe of familiarity - but there’s no mistaking the warmth in his voice. “Thank you.”

She doesn’t look at him as she unwraps her own breakfast. They’ve been travelling together for less than an hour and already she can feel the familiar pull of temptation, the heady possibility of rash decisions. A very long drive indeed, she thinks darkly. “You’re welcome.”


~*~



Feeling vaguely rebellious, she tosses the crumpled paper bag that once held their breakfast over her shoulder into the back of the van, then grabs one of the newspapers from beside her feet.

“Anything?” Michael asks as she spreads the paper across her lap.

She looks up from the black and white picture of Michael’s face to the living colour version beside her. “I’m afraid you’re the lead story once again.”

He frowns. “Anything specific or just rehashing the same old story?”

She quickly casts her gaze over the front page. “Both,” she answers, then inhales sharply.

“What is it?”

“My father.” She skims the article frantically, her heart twisting at the accompanying picture of herself and her father. “His candidacy for the Vice Presidency has been withdrawn.” She thinks of their hurried telephone conversation – God, had that only been yesterday? “That must have been why he was flying home so early.” She glances at her watch. It was just after seven o’clock, but her father was a habitually early riser. “I need to call him.”

“Go ahead.”

“Which phone should I use?”

He slips his hand into his trouser pocket and pulls out a slim black cell phone. “Take this one.”

She dials the familiar number, listens to the seemingly endless peal of an unanswered call until it drops out, then frowns. “There’s no answer at home.” She disconnects, then dials a second number, only to get the same result. “No answer on his cell either.”

“He might be in an early meeting.”

She frowns again. “Maybe, but there’s no voicemail, and there should have been someone in the house to take the call.” Disconnecting the line, she looks at him. “That’s odd.”

“I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about.” He takes his eyes from the road long enough to meet her gaze. Despite his reassuring words, she sees her own apprehension mirrored in his face.

“I’ll try again shortly.” Putting the cell phone on the seat beside her, she runs her hands through her hair and stares unseeingly at the passing geography. He’s the Governor of Illinois, she tells herself. There’s no way that he could be in any danger. She closes her eyes, remembering sunlight gleaming off a metal gun barrel. She’s the Governor’s daughter, and look how much protection that status had afforded her.

“What do you know about the man I was with yesterday?” she asks abruptly, irritated that she doesn’t know his name. Just another reminder of how completely he’d managed to fool her, she thinks sourly. “Lincoln said he’d met him before?”

“The week before he was supposed to be executed, Lincoln was in an accident when he was being taken to see his son.”

“I remember. I treated him for bruised ribs and lacerations.”

Michael’s gaze constantly sweeps his surroundings- including her - as he drives. “He and Veronica couldn’t believe he’d been allowed to leave Fox River. I guess that should have been the first clue that something was off,” he adds darkly. “Halfway to Statesville Penitentiary, a big rig came out of nowhere, smashed right into the van. Linc woke up on the ground with this guy on top of him, trying to smother him.” His voice flattens out to a steady monotone, but she sees the muscle flickering tightly in his jaw. “Apparently your ex-friend then told him a bedtime story about how sometimes it was kinder to put injured animals out of their misery.”

A wave of nausea pitches and rolls through the pit of her stomach. “My God.” She’d had that man in her house, in her kitchen, sitting on her couch. She’d confided in him, laughed with him, totally fooled by his sensitive ‘let’s be best girlfriends’ persona. She’s suddenly so furious that she can barely see straight.

“All of a sudden this second guy appears and cracks-” Michael breaks off, darting a quick glance at her. “What did he say his name was?”

“Lance.”

He shrugs. “Well, for the sake of the story - this guy cracks Lance over the head and drags him off Linc.” He glances at her. “That’s the last thing Linc remembers until he woke up in a car wrecker’s yard.”

She stares at him. “Who was the other man?”

He lets out an unsteady breath, and she sees his hands tighten on the steering wheel. “Our father.”

She feels her mouth fall open. “Your father?”

“Yep.”

“But I thought-”

“So did I. So did Linc.” He gives her a humourless smile, an ancient misery lurking in his eyes. “Apparently our father wasn’t quite who he appeared to be.”

“Tell me.”

He does. He tells her about The Company, their plan to use Lincoln to draw his father out into the open. He tells her that their father had been at Lincoln’s aborted execution, and it had been information he’d supplied to the judge that had caused the temporary stay to be granted.

Her head is spinning, but she snatches at the memory of the strained conversation she’d had with Lincoln a few hours afterwards, his questions about the tricks that the stress might have played on his mind. Could it cause me to see something that wasn’t there?

Oh, my God. Lincoln must have seen his father in the viewing room - no wonder he had behaved so strangely when she’d visited him in his cell. “It was never about Lincoln at all.”

“No.” There’s a hard edge to that one word. “He was just a convenient means to an end.”

She has so many questions, it’s hard to know where to start. Finally, she decides to start at the beginning. “Why did you do it?”

“What do you mean?”

“There are a lot of people with loved ones on Death Row. They take civil action, they start websites, they hire the best lawyers money can buy.” She looks at him. “They don’t get themselves thrown into jail just to break out again.”

“I did it because he was innocent and because there was a good chance I could make it work.” Sensing there’s more to the story than he’s telling her, she says nothing, and he softly adds, “And because it was my fault he was in there.”

She frowns. “What do you mean?”

He changes lanes, letting a big rig pass them by, then says without looking at her, “He owed the wrong people a lot of money. Money that he’d borrowed so that I could go to college and have a better life than he did.”

She digests this for a moment, then asks what – to her, at least – is an obvious question. “He didn’t tell you he was having trouble?”

He shakes his head. “No. I never knew that he’d borrowed the money.” He stares at the road ahead, but she has the feeling he’s seeing something quite different. “He’d told me that it had come from our mother’s life insurance.”

His expression tightens as he speaks, and it suddenly all makes perfect, terrible sense. She knows only too well how easily love and obligation and guilt can become entangled, twisting together until there’s no way to tell them apart. “How old were you when she died?” she asks gently, still grappling to come to terms with the enormity of his brother’s sacrifice. Of his own sacrifice.

“Eight.” He glances at her. “How old were you?”

She shouldn’t be surprised he knows her mother is dead, but she is, and she knows that should worry her. Because somehow, over the last few hours, she has let herself forget that he knows almost as much about her as she does. She hesitates briefly – she doesn’t want to talk about herself - but she knows a deliberate change of topic when she hears one. “Fifteen.”

“Tough age.”

“Not as tough as eight.”

“Maybe.”

“Actually, the year before she died was the worst.” She stares at the passing cars, the words suddenly coming easily. “Watching someone slowly kill themselves is something that stays with you for a long time.” Her throat feels tight and scratchy, but her eyes are dry. “Knowing that there’s absolutely nothing you can do for them.”

“Is that when you decided to become a doctor? To help people in a way you weren’t able to help your mother?”

She gives him a sharp glance, not sure she enjoys being analysed quite so precisely. “Actually, I can’t remember a time when I didn’t want to be one.” She shifts restlessly in her seat. “What about you? Why did you decide to become an engineer?”

“It was something I always wanted to be, even before I knew what it was called.” He falls silent for moment, as though trying to find the right words to explain. Finally he shrugs and says, “All my life I’ve been drawn to how things work. What makes them tick.”

“People too?”

His gaze locks briefly with hers, and she feels an odd jolt of sensation flare through her veins, as though she’s touched a live wire with her finger. “Sometimes.”



~*~



As the hours pass, she tries and fails to shake the disconcerting feeling of being on a first date. She’s gratified to realise that her first impression of him – that he didn’t belong in Fox River – is quite correct, but she knows that this is an unreal situation, that this enforced intimacy isn’t healthy. But knowing and believing are two different things, and every mile they travel finds her struggling not to fall any deeper than she already is.

By noon, the early morning cool has warmed to a cracking heat that makes her feel limp and weary. She plucks at the front of her cotton sweater, runs her hands through her hair, pulling it back into a haphazard ponytail, and wonders what Michael would think if she dumped one of the bottles of water over her head. He doesn’t seem to be feeling the heat half as much as she is. His tie is still perfectly straight, his shirt cuffs still crisp and buttoned up tight. When she looks at him, she can almost see him as he may have been before Fox River.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“Why the suit?”

His gaze flicks sideways to her, then back to the road. “Helps me blend in.”

What it does, she thinks wryly, is make him look as though he’s escaped from a men’s fashion photo shoot, but she bites her tongue on those words and merely asks, “You think?”

He says nothing for several minutes, then finally says without looking at her, “And maybe I wanted something that would help me feel like myself again.”

Perhaps she should be pleased her analysis was accurate, but all she feels is a pang of empathy so strong it’s all she can do not to reach out and touch him.

She doesn’t, and they drive on in silence. The heat grows worse, and after another half hour she turns to him, intending to ask if there might be a spare - preferably clean - t-shirt in the duffle bag. The sight of a police car in the lane beside them chases the thought from her head.

“Michael-”

“I see them.” He glances in the rear view mirror. “Just keep smiling and talking.”

She does. She tells him a long and rambling story about the last holiday she had with her parents, their last one as a family. They had gone to the beach and her father drove both her and her mother crazy by calling his office every five minutes – or so it had seemed - and doing paperwork and how they were both secretly glad when he went back to Chicago. After a few minutes the police cruiser sails past them without a backwards glance, and she feels her whole body sag with relief.

“Sounds like your father hasn’t changed much since then,” Michael says mildly, and she realises with a start that he’d actually been listening to her. She’d been so nervous she’d hardly been aware of what she’d been saying, but he’d taken in every word she’d said.

She stares at his now familiar profile, and knows the hollow frustration of finding exactly the right person in the wrong place at the wrong time. “Not really.”

“At least now he knows you were right about Lincoln’s case,” he points out, and she wonders if he’s reassuring her for her sake or for his.


~*~



Half an hour after their encounter with the police cruiser, Michael tells her they need to ditch the van. She agrees, something she regrets a few minutes later when she realises that she’s going to be the one taking care of business at the next used car lot they find. It won’t be the first used car she’s ever bought, but she’s never had to work with such a tight budget, nor had a convicted felon waiting around the corner for her.

To her relief – and surprise - nothing out of the ordinary happens. No police officers suddenly appear from behind the used RVs, and the car salesman is too busy treating her as though she doesn’t know one end of a vehicle from the other - and ogling her cleavage, much to her annoyance - to pay any serious attention to her face. Thirty minutes later, the dark blue van is just a memory as she drives away in a white 1970 Rambler. There’s no air-conditioning, but the engine and the radio both work and that’s good enough for her.

Michael is waiting – overstuffed duffle bag at his feet – in a side street two blocks away. As she approaches, she can’t help but be impressed by his camouflage skills. He’s standing several feet back from the road itself, half hidden by the trees, and if she didn’t know exactly where he would be waiting, she doubts she would have seen him. As she gets closer, she can see that he is agitated, restless to the point of wringing his hands. He sees her, his gaze having a disconcerting impact on her even at this distance, and his body language immediately changes, relief loosening his limbs, his frown vanishing. “I thought there might have been a problem,” he says carefully as she pulls up beside him.

Wondering how much effort it took for him not to come charging into the dealership after her, she climbs out of the car. Not really fond of being behind the wheel when she has no idea where she’s going, she’s happy to relinquish the driver’s seat. “Sorry I took so long, but the guy was trying to rip me off.”

One hand on the top of the driver’s side door, he stares at her in disbelief, then a slow grin slides across his face. “You were haggling?”

“He was trying to rip me off,” she protests, shrugging as she walks around the front of the car, suddenly embarrassed. “I have a thing about guys who assume I know nothing about cars just because I’m female.”

He keeps looking at her once they’re in the car and, flustered by the obvious admiration gleaming in his eyes, she reaches for the radio and turns up the volume on a familiar track. “I like this song.”

The car slides smoothly into the light flow of traffic. “So do I.”

She smiles. “It reminds me of college.”

“Me too.” He glances at her again. “I’m still amazed we never met.”

“I would have remembered.”

“Ah.” He quirks one eyebrow, but keeps his eyes on the road. “That’s still not a compliment, right?”

She says nothing, but she feels her face flushing. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees him grin, and she knows that if she’d wanted to keep her feelings for him to herself, she’s doing a terrible job.


~*~



Just after they’ve passed through St. James, he gives her a hopeful look. “Feel like breaking out the junk food?”

“God, yes,” she answers with undisguised fervour. “Good thing you’re not diabetic,” she adds casually as she twists around to unzip the duffle bag behind his seat. “I’d hate to think of what all this processed food would be doing to your blood sugar levels otherwise.”

He says nothing, and she knows this is going be to be one of those conversations, one that makes her feel as though she’s pulling teeth. “You used an insulin blocker, didn’t you?” He looks surprised and she gives him a small smile. “I’m a doctor, Michael, and there are very few ways of faking diabetes.”

He hesitates, then nods. “PUGNAc.”

Irritated anew that he’d fooled her into unknowingly endangering his health, she rips open a Twinkie package and practically slaps it into his waiting palm. “I’m going to ask you something, and I’d really like you to be honest with me.” She watches his face. “Are you suffering any side-effects?”

He stares at the road ahead for a long moment, then finally says with obvious reluctance. “A few.”

“Like what?”

“Occasional nausea, cold sweats.”

She nods as she rips open a second Twinkie package. Nothing she hadn’t expected. “Any heart palpitations?”

He looks at her, his gaze travelling swiftly from her eyes to her lips. “None related to the PUGNAc, no.” He quickly turns his attention back to the road, but the damage is done. Her pulse is racing, the overly sweet bite of cake and filling she’s just taken thick and heavy on her tongue.

Annoyed with him for flirting so expertly and with herself for letting his flirting get to her, she picks up one of the newspapers stashed at her feet, hoping for a distraction. She skims a few want ads and then, struck by a sudden whim, she trails one finger down a column on the next page. “Okay, your birthday is September 8th,” she murmurs, “so that makes you a Virgo.”

“You remember my birthday?” He sounds both surprised and pleased.

“When someone visits the infirmary as much as you did, Michael, I end up reading their file a lot.” Feeling his gaze on her, she hurriedly reads out his horoscope for the day.

“The day is quite good for undertaking mental work that needs some attention to detail and disciplined thinking.” She can’t help thinking that this would be part of Michael’s horoscope every day. “You should be mindful that you probably won't be able to express your thoughts all that well today, and could well run the risk of being misunderstood or saying totally the wrong thing. So it may be best to work alone and forego the conversations for today.” Amused, she glances at him. “Sounds like we’re in for a quiet trip.”

“What’s yours?” he asks, completely ignoring her gentle jibbing. “May 1st, right?”

She doesn’t want to be impressed by the that he remembers the date - after all, a man in prison tends to take careful note of the passing of days, not to mention a man who has done his homework – but she is and now the memory of her last birthday rises up and wraps itself around her thoughts.

Clearing her throat, she starts to read her own stars, trying not to think of the paper rose that was now sitting hundreds of miles behind her. “You should defer seeking any sort of appointment or favour from those higher up today. They aren't apt to show any favouritism or give support, so why bother.” Swallowing the sudden urge to laugh hysterically until she cries, she keeps reading. “Abide by the rules and concentrate on getting work complete and deal with things one thing at a time.” Her gaze skips ahead to read the next sentence, then swears she can almost hear the universe silently laughing behind her back.

Michael darts a sideways glance at her. “Is that it?”

She stares at the last sentence for a few seconds longer - tonight has a seductive feel about it, so why not treat your partner and do something completely different together - then turns the page with a resolute flick of the wrist. “Yep.”

“Seems kind of short.”

“Psychic must have been having a bad day.”

He lifts one eyebrow – she would never have thought that such a silent gesture could be so eloquent – but thankfully says nothing more.

Making a mental note not to let him read this particular paper, she continues to scan the articles for any mention of Fox River and its former inhabitants. Her thoughts, however, are still one page back, and she’s suddenly more than a little irritated with herself. She doesn’t believe in horoscopes - she never has – so the fact that a faceless columnist thinks this evening has a seductive feel about it should mean less than nothing.

She tries to carry on reading, but her gaze keeps sliding back to the man beside her, a odd tightness in her chest whenever she looks at him. He’d once asked if she’d ever thought about what would have happened if they’d met under different circumstances. At the time, she’d brushed the question aside - not because she’d never thought about it, but because she’d thought about it far too often. If she’d learned nothing else from the last twenty-four hours, it’s that she can imagine herself being with him all too easily.

She’d once tried to convince herself that it was purely a physical attraction. That it was the lure of the forbidden that had drawn her to him. She knows now that it’s so much more than that - for both of them - and for the first time, lets herself believe that another life might just be possible.



~*~

~*~


She tries to carry on reading, but her gaze keeps sliding back to the man beside her, a odd tightness in her chest whenever she looks at him. He’d once asked if she’d ever thought about what would have happened if they’d met under different circumstances. At the time, she’d brushed the question aside - not because she’d never thought about it, but because she’d thought about it far too often. If she’d learned nothing else from the last twenty-four hours, it’s that she can imagine herself being with him all too easily.

She’d once tried to convince herself that it was purely a physical attraction. That it was the lure of the forbidden that had drawn her to him. She knows now that it’s so much more than that - for both of them - and for the first time, lets herself believe that another life might just be possible.

It’s late afternoon by the time she lets herself ask one of the questions that’s been haunting her for days now. “How did you find out?” He gives her a puzzled look, and she adds, “How did you know what happened to me after you broke out?”

His expression tightens. “Bellick.”

Startled by the unexpected answer, she stares at him. “How?”

“He and Geary caught up with us a few days out of Fox River,” he says flatly, then adds, “It’s a long story," and she knows without being told any more that he doesn’t want to discuss it. Which is just fine with her, because the thought of Brad Bellick being the one to tell Michael about her overdose and arrest is enough to make her feel like crawling away to hide in the nearest corner.

After what feels like a very long time, she hears him take a deep breath. “Why did you do it?”

“Why does anyone fall off the wagon?” She feels him glance at her, but she doesn’t want to look at him, not right now. “I couldn’t deal with what was happening, so I chose to get bombed instead.”

He says nothing, waiting for her to continue and, to her surprise, she realises she wants to tell him. “It started a few months into my internship at Chicago General. It was for a lot of reasons, but there’s no real excuse.” She looks down at her hands, twisting them together in her lap. “Paediatrics was a lot tougher than I thought it was going to be, but thousands of people went through the same thing I did every day.”

“When what started, exactly?”

The question makes her cringe. She’d never planned on having this conversation with him. Then again, she thinks, it’s not as though the rest of her life is well-ordered at this point in time. “I’m an addict,” she says simply.

He flinches. “If I hadn’t asked you to help-” His voice is so low she can hardly hear him. “If I’d known-” he breaks off, visibly distressed, and she shakes her head.

“It was my decision, Michael. My choice. Both the infirmary door and what happened afterwards.” She shrugs, doing her best to sound matter-of-fact, but her pulse is suddenly racing. “I may have been clean for almost three years before the escape, but I was still an addict." The words feel slow and thick on her tongue. "I always will be.”

He reaches across to take her hand, his fingers tangling with hers. “I’m sorry. For everything.”

Blinking away the sudden mist that dampens her eyes, she squeezes his hand in return, something hard and tight inside her crumbling away. “I know.”


~*~


They don’t stop again until late afternoon, and only then because she coaxes him into taking a break. It’s just another small town, another anonymous truck stop, but she needs five minutes alone to stretch her legs and her shoulders and wonder what the hell she’s doing here with him.

Just as she has throughout the day, she tries to contact her father once more, and once more she's unsuccessful. There’s a tight little lump of fear sitting in the back of her throat as she disconnects the line. She tells herself he could be caught up in urgent meetings regarding his withdrawn candidacy, but she’s never known his voicemail not to be working. That, more than anything, is what’s troubling her. It’s as though he’s simply fallen off the radar.

Leaving the restroom, she sees Michael standing beside the car, waiting for her. She lingers in the shadows falling from the side of the building, taking a moment just to look at him. He’s standing with his hands in his pockets, his gaze searching the horizon, staring at something only he can see. She watches him, knowing he’s lost inside his head, and a soft, hollow ache clutches at her heart.

She offers to drive, he smiles and tosses her the keys as they cross paths in front of the car. She fumbles them in one hand, her arm bumping against his as she spins around to catch them, her breast pressing fleetingly against his chest. She sucks in a sharp breath, glancing up at him before she thinks better of it. His expression is still, almost remote, but his eyes burn with a subtle hunger he doesn’t bother to hide. She curls her fingers around the keys until the sharp metal edges dig into her skin, then drops her gaze, stepping away from him and towards the driver’s side door.

They drive on, the silence between them neither awkward nor comfortable but expectant in a way that makes her hands feel slippery on the steering wheel. He’s the first one to break it - thirty minutes after they’ve left the truck stop – to give her directions. A few minutes later, he asks about her time in India and the conversation slowly begins to flow again.

Cringing at how idealistic it sounds, she tells him how she’d been inspired by the teachings of Mahatma Ghandi during her second year of medical school, and how she’d begun to think that there could be something more to being a doctor than working eighty hours a week as a resident or striving for her first BMW.

He listens carefully to every word she says, each new question he asks designed to draw her out of herself, and she soon finds herself sharing more with him than she has with anyone in years. Perhaps he’s only padding out the already impressive mental dossier he has on her, but she can’t deny the lure of a captive and extremely attentive audience.

“You found a copy of my college yearbook, didn’t you?” she finally asks him, even though she suspects she already knows the answer.

He looks faintly abashed, but doesn’t bother to deny it. “Yes.”

“Pretty handy dirt-digging skills you’ve got there.” She glances at him quickly. “Ever thought about going into politics?”

His mouth quirks in a wry smile that doesn’t quite meet his eyes. “Strangely enough, recent events have conspired to sour that particular profession as far as I’m concerned.”

“No kidding.” She stares at the white line in the middle of the road, watching it as it takes her further and further away from her real life. “My father still isn’t answering his phone.”

“He’s probably being besieged by the media,” he points out softly. “What happened to him is pretty big news.”

“Maybe,” she mutters as she eases her foot off the gas, suddenly realising she’s nudging the speed limit. “But I’d feel a whole lot better if his voicemail was working.”


~*~


The combination of spent adrenalin and the heat finally catches up with her, and she can feel herself wilting. She wants to ask if he plans to stop somewhere for the night, but that’s a question so loaded as to make her squirm just thinking about it. Safer, she decides, to simply ask about dinner plans.

“Are we eating soon?”

He eyes her for a moment, then shakes his head with a grin. “You must have an amazing metabolism.”

She’s not sure if she should be pleased or insulted. “When I get nervous, I eat.”

His arm is stretched out along the back of the bench seat, his fingertips almost touching her shoulder. “Am I making you nervous?”

His voice is low, infused with a subtle heat, and it reminds her of countless conversations in the infirmary. But she’s a different person now, and she knows that playing with this particular fire isn’t what she needs at the moment. “It’s more due to being on the run from the law, actually.”

“Ah,” he says in a completely different voice. “In that case, we’d better find something to eat.”

Once again the designated public face, she waits for their Mexican takeout and spends fifteen minutes not looking at the bottles of tequila behind the bar. She thinks of the gritty tang of salt on her tongue, the liquid heat in her throat, the pulpy relief of lemon sour against her teeth. She presses her lips together hard, and chokes back a sudden longing for the soft oblivion of not caring.

“Your order, ma’am?”

She blinks at the teenaged waitress. “Thanks.” She grabs straws and napkins, then makes her way back to the car with an armful of food and drink and a weary feeling of déjà vu. Being on the run from the law with Michael Scofield seems to involve quite a few mundane tasks, but she’s not going to complain when the alternative meant lying dead in a Chicago alleyway.

They travel only a short distance before he’s pulling off the road again, taking a small dirt road into what looks like a camping area. In the twilight, she peers through the windshield, trying to see where they are. “What’s up?” She twists around in her seat, afraid he’s just spotted someone tailing them.

“Nothing.” He pulls up in a sparsely wooded area, far enough from the road so as not to be seen, but not so far away as to feel as though they’re lost in the woods. He climbs out of the car, then is opening her door for her, taking the food from her hands and resting it on the roof of the car. “I just thought you might like to eat somewhere other than the car.” He gives her a quick grin, then leans into the back seat to rummage in the duffle bag, eventually pulling out one of the blankets that had been in the back of the van.

She stares at the blanket in his hands, torn between rolling her eyes and succumbing to nervous laughter. With everything they’re going through, he wants to stop and have a moonlit picnic? Then she lifts her eyes to his, sees the tender concern in his face, and she knows he’s doing this for her, trying to help her forget what lies behind and ahead of them. For a little while, at least. “That would be nice.”



~*~


She takes one last sip of her soda as she stretches out her legs, letting her bare toes brush against the night-cooled grass at the edge of the blanket. “When did you learn how to make origami?”

He shoves the last of the empty takeout containers into the crumpled paper bag, then puts it to one side. “Linc learned how to make cranes in fifth grade. He taught me, then I learned how to make other things too.” A sudden smile lights up his face. “It used to piss him off that I turned out to be better at it than he was – he told me it was because I had such dainty girl hands.”

She laughs softly. “I don’t know your brother very well, but that does sound like something he’d say.” She doesn’t add that the hands in question are anything but girlish and have distracted her many times over the last few months. “The first crane in my bag-” she says, aimlessly flicking her soda straw with her fingertip. “You hid it there the night of the escape, didn’t you?”

Sprawled on the blanket beside her, he stares at the distant roadway. “I was going to hide it somewhere in your office.” Glancing up at her, he lifts one shoulder in a half-shrug. “Then I found your handbag in the bottom drawer of your desk.”

She can’t quite bring herself to look at him as she asks, “Why did you leave it for me?”

She hears him sigh. “You know why.”

“Humour me,” she shoots back, suddenly very tired of playing games.

“It was an apology.” He plucks at the rumpled blanket with his fingers. “And a promise.”

Such simple words shouldn’t make her feel as though she’s on the brink of discovering something heady and addictive, but they do. “And the others?” She looks at him through the growing darkness, thinking of the paper birds hidden at the bottom of her handbag, of their letters and dashes and dots, the coded messages she’d never had the chance to decipher. “What were they?”

He hesitates, then tells her, “An invitation.”

She stares at him. She’d assumed she was here with him simply because he’d found out she’d been caught up in The Company’s web, but now she’s not so sure. He’d left that first crane for her before he’d even left Fox River. “What kind of invitation?”

“I wanted you to have some way of finding me,” he says softly, his gaze finding hers in the half-light. “After it was all over.”

She studies him for a moment, taking in the sculptured bones of his face, the long graceful lines of his body, and she thinks again that if things had been different, she would still want him just as much. “And where would that have been?”

A faintly embarrassed smile plays about his lips. “A dive shop on a beach.”

She lifts her eyebrows. “And which beach would that be?”

“I’m leaning towards Panama, but right now, anywhere over the border looks good.”

The wistfulness in his voice, in his eyes, has her looking away, fighting the sudden urge to touch his hand, resting so close to hers on the rough blanket. “With hammocks for twenty-five bucks a night?”

His face lights up, and she sees the memory of their past conversation glittering in his eyes. “Exactly.”

Oh, Michael. It would be all so easy to let herself be swept up in his dreams of sand and surf, but she can’t. Not when she’s left so much unfinished business behind her. “Sounds wonderful, but what about the people who put your innocent brother on Death Row?”

It seems to take him a very long time to answer her. “I need to get my brother out of the country,” he finally says, his gaze skittering away from hers. “Once that’s done, then I can keep digging.”

She nods, but she has no idea if he’s just telling her what she wants to hear, or if he really believes that he’ll still care about machinations in Washington once he and Lincoln are home free.

Reaching out, he takes the empty soda cup from her hand, then puts it carefully on the grass beside him. “Sara.”

“What?” There’s a panicked note in her voice, a perfect match for the sudden racing of her pulse.

He pushes himself up on his elbows until his face is almost level with hers, suddenly much too close. “In the van yesterday, when we arrived at the safe house-”

Too close, too close, too close. She leans back slightly, putting some space between them, but it doesn’t seem to help slow the hammering of her heart. “What about it?”

“I’m sorry for a lot of things.” His eyes glow in the half-light. “But I’m not sorry that I kissed you.”

She exhales slowly, feeling the fight go out of her, a sense of inevitability washing over her. From the moment she’d taken his hand yesterday and let him pull her into that van and back into his life, they’d been circling each other, testing each other, testing the waters. There are still so many unanswered questions between them, but she’s tired of pretending. Tired of being careful. “Neither am I.”

“I wish-” He breaks off and simply looks at her, his eyes dark. She has a few seconds to appreciate the fact that they’re almost too well hidden from prying eyes - thanks to his careful placement of the car and the blanket - then his hand is curling around the back of her neck and his mouth is on hers and he’s kissing her as though he’s afraid she might vanish if he stops.

Oh, God.

The soft kiss they’d shared in the van the day before had knocked her off balance, but this is different. This kiss is a kind of madness that instantly taps into her hunger for him, calling up a fever-hot surge of desire that floods her whole body. He kisses her as though he’s been planning it for months and perhaps he has. Perhaps she’s been wanting it just as long, because the taste and scent and feel of him rips right through her defences, leaving her open and aching and wanting.

For weeks – months – she’s had to fight the almost overwhelming urge to touch him. Now that they’re finally, truly alone, she gives in, sliding her hands up the length of his arms, over his shoulders, tugging at his collar – her fingers fumble with the tight buttons - and that damned tie that she suddenly wants to wrap around his wrists.

He kisses her again – the touch of his mouth soft and hard and exactly what she’s been missing without knowing it - and his hands seem to be everywhere, buried in her hair, touching her face, his fingertips tracing the curve of her neck. “Sara-” he whispers, then stops, as though that’s all he needs to say.

She feels herself falling backwards and takes him with her, her fingers digging into his shoulders as his mouth slides hotly across her jaw. Her sweater has ridden up at the back – the blanket is scratching her skin – but she doesn’t care because his hand is sliding up the back of her thigh, and she’s hooking her leg around his. Muttering something under his breath, he shifts his weight and she feels him against her, hard and urgent.

Her whole body flinches, her hips arching in mute appeal. Cupping his face in her hands, she kisses him hard, the dark spicy taste of him filling her mouth. A low groan rumbles deep in his chest, then he gently rocks his hips against hers in a subtle rhythm of both supplication and challenge. She arches her back, her hands flexing tightly on his shoulders as a flash of heat floods the hollow of her womb and between her legs, her breasts suddenly heavy and aching.

“Sara-” he begins again, but this time she knows he’s going to say more than just her name.

“Don’t say it,” she mutters against his mouth, smoothing her palms over the beautiful curve of his skull, then down to his tie, pulling it loose and tugging it over his head, letting it fall from her fingertips.

His reply is little more than a strangled whisper. “Don’t say what?”

“You’re going to ask me if I’m sure about this and I’ll have to think about it so please, just don’t ask because I don’t want to think right now.”

Putting one hand on his chest, she pushes him away slightly, then reaches down to grab the bottom of her sweater, pulling it up and over her head without ceremony. He inhales sharply as she tosses it aside, then his hands are touching her face and he’s kissing her as though she’s made of fine china, a delicate tasting of her mouth that makes her whole body hum with a sudden, sharp hunger.

She helps him slip the crumpled shirt off his shoulders, smiling in what feels like recognition as the indigo patterns on his skin are gradually revealed. She presses a kiss to his shoulder, then gently bites the corded muscles of his neck. His skin tastes of salt and sweat and it’s so much better than any tequila shot, a heady rush to which she’s already utterly addicted.

He shudders against her, muttering a guttural oath under his breath. Sliding his hand underneath her camisole, he brushes her stomach with his fingertips, then the heat of his palm curves around her breast, his thumb teasing the tight jut of her nipple. His mouth is hot on her bare shoulder, a shudder going through him as he whispers against her skin, “I’m sure.” His voice is unsteady, rough with desire and something else, something deeper. “I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.”

And, just like that, she’s undone. A part of her knows this is madness, but it’s also the only thing that makes sense. Whatever it is that lies between her and Michael, it’s the one thing she can trust.

Curling one hand around his neck, she slides the other over his stomach, feeling his muscles flex beneath her touch, then lower, palming the thrust of his erection through the thin material of his trousers. He sucks in a sharp breath, arching into her touch, and she feels an answering warmth flutter to life deep in her groin.

“My handbag is in the car,” she mutters thickly. He looks down at her in confusion, and she jerks her head towards the car. “There’s a condom in my handbag.”

“Ah,” is his succinct reply, an almost bashful smile tugging at his mouth. He kisses her once more, then leaves her lying on the blanket, staring up at the night sky – the stars never seem as bright in the city – her heart hammering so loudly that she can’t control the impulse to press her palm hard against her chest. Then he’s kneeling beside her, his fingertips stroking the curve of her jaw to lift her face to his. As he kisses her - with an unutterable tenderness that makes her want to weep - she wraps her fingers around his wrists, the irregular fluttering of his pulse against her skin telling her everything she needs to know.

Conscious of their surroundings, they don’t undress fully, just enough to feel skin and hands and mouths as they twist together on the threadbare blanket. He kisses her with a gentle determination, then his hand slips beneath the unbuttoned waistband of her trousers, beneath the lace underwear she’d scrubbed so carefully in a motel sink early that morning.

He whispers her name against her mouth, then he’s touching her, long fingers delicately sliding over damp curls and aching flesh. A low moan rises up in the back of her throat at the feel of his mouth on her breast, his fingers languidly stroking the slick heat between her legs, and she feels as though she’s about to fly apart. “Come here,” she whispers, but he shakes his head.

“Not yet.”

She closes her eyes, her hips lifting to meet his touch again and again, her heels digging into the blanket and the ground beneath them, the scent of grass and earth mingling with the smell of faded perfume and soap and a desire so tangible she can almost taste it on the back of her tongue. If she’s ever wondered – and God help her, she has – if those artist’s hands of his could be put to better uses than making origami cranes, she has her answer now.

Too soon she feels it, the swell of flesh and blood deep inside her, growing tighter and hotter. Her whole body tenses, the muscles in her stomach and thighs straining in an attempt to stave off the inevitable, but it’s a losing battle. A heartbeat later she buries her face against his shoulder, biting her bottom lip to keep from crying out as everything seems to blur around the edges, the hot rush of pleasure unravelling inside her so quickly that it steals her breath away.

“Oh, my God.” Limp and boneless, she slumps against him for several seconds, her heart pounding, her skin prickling with heat. He kisses her temple as he slowly withdraws his hand, making her shudder, then she curls her arms around his neck, bringing his face down to hers for a lazy kiss that quickly becomes more urgent, more demanding. His whole body is humming with tension, but still he seems to be holding back, as if waiting for some unknown signal from her before going any further.

Typical, she thinks hazily. Typical Michael to be concerned with manners and entitlement and permission at a time like this. She trails her fingertips down his stomach, then lower, pushing down twin layers of trousers and boxers until the thick length of him is straining against her hand.

He makes a choked sound of pleasure as she touches him, her fingertips exploring the hot, smooth skin, the warm shape of his flesh, then his hand is on the blanket beside them, groping for the silver packet he’d retrieved from her handbag. She clumsily tugs at her jeans and underwear, finally sliding both down her legs with shaking hands. “Hurry,” she whispers to him in the darkness, wanting to give him back what he’d given her, wanting all of him.

His hands are shaking too, but she resists the urge to help him, and a few seconds later he’s cradled between her thighs, his elbows braced on either side of her head. She wants to look away – it’s too much, he always sees too much – but he doesn’t let her, his eyes burning into hers as he slowly presses himself inside her, filling her, making her hips jerk. She sucks in another sharp breath as he pushes himself even deeper inside her, and he looks down at her, his eyes glittering, his own chest rising and falling unsteadily. “You okay?”

She gazes up at him, still not quite believing this is happening, then she gives him a shaky smile. “Definitely.”

“It’s been a while,” he mutters almost apologetically, and her heart twists. She reaches up to touch his face, and doesn’t pretend she’s not glad to hear it.

“Good.”

His eyes never leaving hers, he starts to move against her, rolling his hips in a steady rhythm, the smooth heat of him sliding over her tender flesh in a languid dance that seems to keep time with the beat of her heart. He bows his head to kiss her breasts, his mouth hot and insistent, his whiskered jaw scraping against her skin, leave a flurry of goosebumps in its wake. She can still feel the tension in him – the muscles in his back are rigid beneath her splayed hands – and senses he’s still holding some part of himself back. She pulls him closer, pushing her hips up against him, biting his jaw gently, silently urging him to let go.

He does.

Soon it’s faster and harder and better than anything else she’s known, and he’s gripping her thigh, lifting it higher, opening her up to him, thrusting deeper, harder, burying himself inside her again and again until she is writhing beneath him. He whispers her name twice - a broken plea - then he grows still, his whole body tensing. A few endless seconds later, he kisses her, hard, and she tastes his groan of pleasure as he begins to shudder in her arms, his flesh pulsing deep inside her.

She pulls him close as he slumps in her embrace, burying his face in the crook of her neck. Running her hands gently across his shoulders, the back of his neck, the now familiar curve of his skull, she wraps her arms around him, feeling the hammering of his heart against hers, feeling as though she’s just made a long overdue and very important discovery.


~*~


She doesn’t remember falling asleep, but suddenly Michael is gently shaking her awake. He pulls her to her feet, puts her sweater in her hand and urges her towards the car before she has the chance to feel awkward. “I think you’ll find the backseat more comfortable than the ground,” he says with a smile, his hand splayed low on her back.

“My shoes,” she mutters, still half-asleep, but he just keeps steering her towards the car.

“I’ll get them.”

Yawning, she takes a seat in the back of the car, her legs dangling out of the open door, vaguely noting that he must have stowed the duffle bag in the trunk. Dressed only in her camisole and trousers, she’s half-heartedly dusting the grass from her sweater when he reappears, holding a pale green t-shirt. “Do you want to wear this?”

Suddenly - and ridiculously - shy, she smiles at him, grateful for both the t-shirt and his matter-of-fact demeanour. “Thank you.”

He vanishes again, then she hears the trunk being slammed shut. She’s just pulled the t-shirt over her head when he climbs into the back of the car with her and begins to spread the blanket over the bench seat. “What are you doing?”

“Sleeping with you,” is his succinct reply. To her amazement, given what they’ve just shared, the words make her blush. “Hey, you’re the one who bought a car with the roomy backseat,” he adds with a smile, obviously reading her expression perfectly. She studies his long legs, then her own, then gives him another dubious look. He grins. “Trust me.”

A few minutes later - after a few false starts – they’re both stretched out, the solid warmth of his chest against her back, his legs entwined with hers, his breath teasing the back of her neck. She hasn’t slept – actually slept – with another person for almost two years. The irony of it being in such circumstances isn’t lost on her. She wriggles against him, trying to find a comfortable position. “What if I fall off?”

His arm tightens around her waist. “I won’t let you,” he murmurs drowsily, and she believes him.

It’s light when she wakes again, stretched out alone on the back seat, her sweater folded neatly beneath her head. The car door closest to her feet is open, and the early morning air is cool on her skin. She lies still for a few moments, wondering if there’s a chance she dreamed the events of the night before, then she moves and feel a pleasurable tenderness that’s definitely not only in her imagination. She pulls herself up into a sitting position, blearily taking stock of the immediate situation. Her neck is stiff, her back aches, and she really, really wants a shower and a toothbrush. Oh, and not only has she just made love with an escaped felon, she would do it again without a second's hesitation.

She puts her hand over her eyes. She was right. This is madness.

“Good morning.” Michael is crouched beside the car, dressed in a long sleeved t-shirt and baggy khaki pants, his tattoos once again hidden from the world. He smiles at her – she wonders if her own expression is as embarrassingly sheepish, then decides it probably is – and hands her a bottle of water.

Running a self-conscious hand through her tangled hair, she smiles blearily. “Are you always this cheery in the morning?”

“Sometimes,” he says, more than a hint of smugness in his tone.

She studies him for a moment, wondering what he’d do if she bounced the water bottle cap off his forehead, but he’s still looking at her as though she’s the best thing he’s seen in years, so she decides on a more sensible course of action. “Let’s go find some breakfast.”


~*~


“There’s a way I can protect you,” he tells her when she returns to the car with food and a fresh newspaper.

“So you said.” She smoothes down the front of her borrowed t-shirt, then pulls her damp hair back into a ponytail. If they survive this journey, she’ll be happy to never see another truck stop again, but she can’t complain about being able to take a shower and buy a hot breakfast at five o’clock in the morning. “Exactly what does that mean?”

They’re parked behind the café so as to be invisible to passing traffic, but his gaze is still everywhere, narrowed against the early morning sun. “There’s another safe house in New Mexico.”

She blinks. “What about Panama?”

“That’s still a work in progress.” He slips his hand into his pocket, and she hears the jingle of car keys. “But that house on the beach? It'll have a guest room,” he says casually, not quite meeting her eyes. “Just in case anyone wanted to come and stay for a while.” He looks at her then, an almost shy glance, and her stomach flips over.

She knows what he’s asking. She knows what he wants and she knows now that she wants it too. Wants it more than she can say but she’s so afraid it will never happen. “You really are a Boy Scout, aren’t you?” she teases lightly, very glad she can sound so matter-of-fact when she feels as though her whole world is being turned upside down every other hour.

“You’re not so unprepared yourself, Doctor Tancredi,” he shoots back. “I guess nice girls do keep condoms in their purses.”

She feels the blush staining her face, but she doesn’t care. She carefully slides the tray of food and coffee onto the roof of the car, then gives him a look she suspects is painfully coy. “I told you once before, Michael, nice girls finish last.”

His eyes gleam with the memory of the night before, and she finds herself holding her breath. But it’s daylight and they’re in public, so he simply smiles, a slow grin that does odd things to the pit of her stomach. “So you did.” He liberates the newspaper tucked under her arm, his knuckles grazing the side of her breast. She swallows hard, her eyes locking with his, a flash of hunger disturbing the smooth lines of his face. He exhales loudly, a rueful smile lifting the corner of his mouth, then drops his hand. She's almost glad when he turns away to spread the newspaper out over the hood, obviously wanting to check the headlines before they start moving. He scans the front page, then grows still, his gaze narrowing.

“What is it?” He looks up at her, his stricken expression making her blood turn cold. “Michael?” He hesitates, then steps aside, reaching out to curl his hand around her elbow as she moves close enough to read the headlines. She glances at the front page, afraid she’s going to see something truly awful about Lincoln or his son, and then the whole world seems to tilt on its axis. She stares at the words, but they don’t make any sense. She looks at the picture of her father’s face, as if he might help her understand what she’s seeing, but he’s mute, staring silently up at her from the black and white pages.

Governor Frank Tancredi. Suspected suicide. Crushing disappointment. Chronic depression. Troubled daughter. Fox River.

She takes a step backwards, then she feels herself sinking to the ground, her knees turning to water. Michael is suddenly crouching beside her, his arm around her shoulders, his mouth moving with words she can’t quite understand, because her father is dead and there is not a single fucking thing about this that makes any sense.

“They killed him,” she hears herself say some time later, and she sounds like someone else. Someone she doesn’t know. The arms around her tighten and she clutches at them. Her hands feel like claws, rigid and cold. Her fingernails dig into the soft underside of Michael’s forearm, her voice tearing from her throat in a strangled sob. “Oh God, they killed him.”

He’s talking again but she can’t hear him over the roar of blood in her ears, can’t see him through the red mist of raw horror and grief pressing down on her. Her stomach heaves, her throat suddenly burning, then she’s being violently ill, her whole body shuddering, her hands pressed flat against the hard earth.

Some time later – she has no idea how long – Michael gently touches her forehead, his palm cool against her hot skin, then he’s wiping her face with a damp piece of cloth that smells like lemon soap. “Sara.” She looks up at him, her vision blurred by tears, and thinks that she’s glad she can’t see his face clearly. “Drink this.”

She stares at him, feeling more disconnected than a sober person should be able to feel. He touches her face again, brushing several strands of limp hair back from her damp forehead. “Please?”

She takes the bottle of water from his hand and drinks almost half of it in what feels like one gulp, then sits back on her heels, her gaze dropping to the ground between her feet. She knows he’s waiting for her to say something, but her thoughts feel half-formed, floating through her mind without recognisable shape. She swallows several times but despite the water, it still feels as though she’s swallowed glass. “I should have been there.”

“If you’d been there, you’d be dead now.” His hand is tracing the line of her spine now, over and over again. It’s vaguely soothing, and she suddenly wants to shake off his touch. She doesn’t want to be soothed, either by words she knows to be true or a gentle touch. As though those things could put this right. As though anything could put this right.

“This can’t be happening,” she mutters, the bleak words whispered into the empty air, more to herself than to Michael.

His hand tightens on her shoulder. “I’m so sorry.”

She nods, unable to meet his eyes. In the back of her mind, she knows that he understands grief and loss, but everything is hurting so much and she’s afraid that if she looks at him, she will blame him. “You said this thing was bigger than you’d ever imagined,” she finally says in a cold, hard voice, still staring at the dust at her feet.

“Yes.”

“How high does it go?”

She lifts her head to find Michael watching her warily, as though he’s suddenly not sure he recognises her. “All the way to the top.”

She feels the blood drain from her face at the enormity of what he – they – are up against. The shock of it is like a bucket of cold water to the face, slamming her back into focus. She sucks in a deep breath, the warm morning air stinging her raw throat. “We can’t just keep running.” She shakes her head, the motion making her head hurt. “Can’t let them get away with what they’ve done.”

“I know.” His eyes are glittering with tears she knows are for her, for her father. “But we can’t do anything if we’re dead, either.”

A cell phone begins to ring in the depths of the duffel bag in the backseat of the car. One hand still resting on her shoulder - as though he’s afraid to let her go - he rises to his feet and reaches into the open window of the car. “It’s Linc,” he mutters a few seconds later as he looks at the caller ID, then flips the phone open. “Hey.” He frowns, listening. “What’s wrong?”

Sara stares at him, studying the expressive lines of his face, feeling as though she’s watching from a great distance. “Are you okay?” He closes his eyes, his jaw clenching. “What about LJ?” He opens his eyes, his gaze locking with hers. She sees a flicker of something – guilt? – in his eyes, then he looks away. “Okay, listen carefully.”

She sits cross-legged on the ground, her hands hanging loosely in her lap, the melodic lilt of Michael’s voice and the morning sun washing over her. She wants very much to concentrate on what he’s saying to his brother but one word is blending into the next. She wants to close her eyes but she knows all she will see is her father’s face. All she will be able to think is that while she was with Michael last night, her father had been murdered.

When Michael flips the phone shut a moment later, she squints up at him, the sunlight too bright against her swollen eyes. “What’s happened?”

He exhales wearily. “Linc’s hit a snag.”

Perhaps one day, the memory of his habitual understatement will make her smile. Right now, though, all it does is make her want to put her hand over his mouth before he can utter the words she already knows he’s going to say.

“I’m so sorry to do this to you now, Sara, but I have to accelerate our timeframe.” He doesn’t meet her eyes as he speaks. “If we risk the main highways, we can get to the safe house in New Mexico by-”

“No.” She cuts him off, the words tumbling out of her mouth almost before her mind has a chance to form them. “I’m not leaving you.”

He stares at her, his tanned throat working as he swallows, his eyes searching her face urgently. “It’s going to be dangerous,” he objects softly, but the unspoken hope in his eyes makes a gentle mockery of his words.

“I know.” She feels as though a hundred different voices are wailing with grief in her head, but she can’t turn her back on him. “But I’ve lost everything I cared about, Michael.” Lifting her chin, she takes a deep breath, her voice cracking with her grief, her useless, suffocating rage. “Everything except you, so don’t tell me that it’s too dangerous to be with you because right now, I really don’t give a damn.”

His face changes, becoming softer, younger, then his hands are under her elbows and he’s pulling her to her feet and wrapping his arms around her, hugging her so tightly she can hardly breathe. She buries her face in the curve of his neck, snaking her arms around his waist, finding some small measure of comfort in the steady rise and fall of his chest against hers, the soft warmth of his breath against her ear. It’s only when he whispers, “I’m so, so sorry,” that her eyes once again blur with hot tears of despair and anger.

She cries silently in his arms for what feels like an eternity, her face pressed hard against his shoulder. She feels the brush of his lips against her temple, hears him saying that everything will be okay, that he’ll make it right, that they can fix things.

“We have to go,” he finally whispers apologetically against her ear, his hand cradling the back of her head as though she’s a crying child in his arms.

She nods, her face still pressed against the solid warmth of his chest. “I know.”

She lets him take her hand and lead her gently towards the car, but her throat still burns with the sour taste of grief, a hard knot of fury coiled deep in her heart. She holds his hand and lets him tell her it will be okay, but she already knows that there are some things that can never be fixed.




~*~

~*~



Opening his eyes, Michael blinks in disbelief, once, then twice.

It changes nothing. Sara Tancredi is still asleep beside him, her hand wrapped about his wrist, holding it close to her chest, her head pillowed on his other arm. His arm is loosely draped over her and her back is warm against his chest - he can feel the heat of her skin through her t-shirt – her tangled hair is tickling his nose.

This can’t be real, he thinks, then she murmurs in her sleep, twisting restlessly in his arms. The curve of her bottom brushes against him, and he is suddenly, painfully hard, and he knows that this is very real.

Letting out a shaky breath, he touches his lips to her hair, then the smooth patch of skin behind her ear, inhaling the scent of hotel soap and something sweeter, something more elusive. She shifts in her sleep again, tugging his hand closer to the soft swell of her breast. He closes his eyes in despair. He’s never actually given much thought to the theory that scratching an itch makes it go away, but he’s definitely a non-believer this morning. He still wants her so badly he can scarcely breathe, his whole body humming with a raw, sexual hunger that’s literally stealing the blood from his head and dancing spots before his eyes.

He would ease his body away from the warmth of hers, but he has neither the room nor the willpower to do so. Hearing the distant sound of a semi, he lifts his head to check their surroundings, glad of the fleeting distraction from the temptation in his arms. It’s just before dawn, the dark indigo of the sky fading to a light grey, and as much as he hates to admit it, time for them to leave. He wants nothing more than to lie here with her, uncomfortable as this temporary sanctuary is, but he can’t. They have to keep moving, have to get to Lincoln. Before that happens, he has to convince Sara that it makes more sense for her to stay at the safe house in New Mexico while he meets up with his brother. It’s not a conversation he’s anticipating with pleasure.

He knows she’s not going to be happy about it. He can only pray that she will understand he’s just trying to keep her safe, that in a few more days all this running will be behind them. They’ll be across the border, all of them, and then they can stop to catch their breath. They can start over again, properly this time. Once they’re safe, he can make everything right.

He looks down at the woman sleeping in his arms, still struggling to comprehend that she’s here with him like this, that she’d been with him last night.

God, last night.

They hadn’t let themselves take their time – it had been a rush of need and release that had swept away any thoughts of going slow – and perhaps he should be grateful. Being with her, the way he’d dreamed but never allowed himself to hope – had overwhelmed him. The touch of skin against skin, the smell and taste and feel of her, of them, swamping him, sending him reeling. It had been almost too much, and yet he wants nothing more than to do it all again.

He inhales the scent of her skin once more, and again feels the hunger ripple through his body. Last night her skin had been barely illuminated by the faintest moonlight, his hands seeing what his eyes could not, and he knows there are many secrets left for him to learn. He wants to see her, all of her. To wake her with a gentle kiss as he slides his hands beneath the thin cotton of her t-shirt, roll her onto her back, hear the same breathless gasp she’d made last night when he’d pressed that first kiss to her breast. He wants to cup his hand over the soft heat between her thighs, feel the slick warmth of her body shivering around his fingers as she buries her face against his neck.

He wants to do every one of these things and a lot more besides, but he can’t. They can’t, not now, now here. Lingering too long in this place would be madness. Being with her had been so much more than anything he’d ever imagined - and given that he’d imagined quite a lot while lying in the darkness of his cell, that was really saying something – but they haven’t come this far to be tripped up by something as mundane as uncontrollable lust.

Thinking darkly that there’s nothing mundane about how she makes him feel – Christ, the taste of her mouth is still on his tongue, the scent of her lingering on his fingers – he slowly disentangles himself, sliding his arm out from beneath her head, gently tugging his other hand out of her grasp. Careful not to disturb her, he leans over and unlocks the door closest to their feet, then he puts one hand on the back of the seat and hauls himself up into a sitting position.

As soon as he slides out from behind her and climbs out of the car, Sara mutters something under her breath and stretches out across the full length of the back seat, her bare feet almost brushing against his thigh. He looks down and smiles at her unpainted but perfectly groomed toes - which come as no surprise – then reaches down and picks her discarded sweater up from the floor behind the driver’s seat, folding it into a makeshift pillow. He manages to slip it under her head without waking her, then he steps away from the car, wanting to give her some space. If, as he suspects, she wakes up feeling as disoriented as he had, it’s the least he can do to give her some time to digest what happened between them last night.

He tells himself it's not that he's afraid of seeing regret in her eyes when she looks at him, or even distance, which would be so much worse, and then he wonders why he even bothers trying to lie to himself when it comes to her.

Standing at the trunk of the car, ruefully adjusting the constrictive fit of his trousers, he scans their surroundings. The occasional semi thunders past on the nearby highway, but there’s no other cars to be seen. The sun is about to rise – the edges of the world have changed from grey to orange-streaked blue – and the sooner they’re back on the road, the better. Opening the trunk, he rummages through his duffle bag, then pulls on a long-sleeved t-shirt, glad of it against the early morning chill, then finds a clean pair of khakis.

He frowns as he considers the contents of the bag, knowing that the clothing issue is going to be become a problem sooner rather than later. Sara has nothing but the clothes she was wearing when ‘Lance’ (Michael’s lip almost curls at the mere thought of the name) pulled out a gun and derailed her life, and - thanks to Lincoln’s apparent light-fingeredness - they have precisely one clean t-shirt left between them. He shakes his head, then adds clean clothes to the shopping list in his head. Not nearly as important as the new police scanner he intends purchasing as soon as possible, he realises, but he’d rather not force Sara to travel across three states without a change of clothing.

Pushing the memory of delicate lace underwear out of his mind with an effort, he leans against the car to pull on his socks and shoes, then grabs an unopened bottle of water. He slams the trunk, counts to ten, then slowly makes his way around to the open car door where he can no longer see Sara’s bare feet. She’s awake, sitting up in the backseat, her legs now tucked under her.

He crouches down beside the car, his heart suddenly pounding. “Good morning.” She looks at him blearily, but there’s no regret, no distance in her eyes, and he swallows his audible sigh of relief. He grins, knowing he probably looks like an infatuated teenager after his first make out session, then passes her the bottle of water, not even trying to tear his eyes away from her.

She runs a hand through her hair, then gives him a slow look of consideration. She’s pale, her eyes are faintly puffy with sleep and her hair is everywhere, but she’s still the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen. “Are you always this cheery in the morning?” she asks, wrinkling her nose at him.

“Sometimes,” he tosses back at her, sucking in a deep lungful of air that threatens to expand his chest to bursting point, or perhaps that’s just his heart - God knows it’s beating fast enough. Or perhaps it’s because he’s wondering if she’s always this grouchy first thing in the morning and realising how much he wants the chance to find out for himself.

Her gaze narrows slightly, as though trying to work out if he’s making a joke at her expense, then she smiles, her tired eyes glowing. “Let’s go find some breakfast.”


~*~


Another truck stop, another cautious foray for supplies. “They have showers here,” she notes as they pull into the parking lot, and he hears the relief in her voice.

Hiding a smile – travelling with Sara means having different priorities than when travelling with a group of men - he brings the car to a stop and turns to her. “I'll wait here for you.”

She shakes her head. “You should go clean up first, while it’s still relatively quiet.” Fishing around her feet, she eventually comes up with his baseball cap. “Don’t forget this,” she offers with a wry smile.

He takes the hat from her, tangling his fingers with hers as he does. She glances down at his hand, then up at him, her smile faltering as her eyes lock with his. “Thank you,” he says softly. He’s not talking about the hat or the offer to keep first watch, and they both know it.

She looks away, a faint spot of colour appearing high on each cheekbone, but she’s smiling as she lets go of the hat. “Hurry up, would you? Having grass seeds down the back of my pants isn’t really the way I like to start the day.”

He laughs, the sound taking him by surprise, then climbs out of the car. He doesn’t want to leave her alone, but the lure of using a bathroom with a door – rather than having to shelter behind a bush on the side of the road – is something not even he can resist.

There’s no one else in the men’s showers, and he’s very glad. They’re not communal by any means, but it’s still enough to instantly jolt him back to Fox River. His stomach lurches, and he immediately feels the instinctive urge to look over his shoulder, his arms tensing at his sides, guarding the space around him.

In his old life, a normal shower might have lasted fifteen minutes. Thanks to Fox River, it’s only four minutes until he’s patting himself dry and pulling on his clothes. He uses the toothpaste Sara had bought the day earlier, the taste reminding him of the sweetness of her mouth, and he suddenly wants nothing more than to walk straight back to the car, cup her face in his hands and kiss her until they’re both breathless. He rinses his mouth, then splashes water on his heated face, wondering if it’s too late to have another shower. A very, very cold shower.

A few minutes later, he sees the anxiety etched on her pale face as he walks towards the car, her smile of relief twisting his heart. “That was fast,” she remarks as he opens the driver’s door. Her tone is light, but her gaze sweeps over him intently, lingering on his mouth before shyly darting away.

He slides behind the wheel, tugging the cap lower over his eyes as he smiles at her, wondering if she has any idea what she’s doing to him. “Well, let’s just say you learn to shower real fast when you’re in prison.”


~*~


Grabbing the duffle bag from the trunk, he slings it into the backseat of the car just as Sara leaves the café. He watches her as she walks across the parking lot, admiring the graceful lines of her body, the subtle tilt of her head as she catches his eye. Just looking at her makes his whole body tighten, but it’s much more complicated than a simple case of sexual attraction.

She’s carrying yet another tray of takeout food, yet another newspaper tucked under her arm. Another day living as a fugitive. She deserves better than this, he thinks darkly. He doesn’t want to let her go, doesn’t want to let her out of his sight, but he has no choice. Not if he wants to keep her safe.

“There’s a way I can protect you,” he says when she comes within earshot, knowing that if he doesn’t start this conversation now, he might never start it.

“So you said.” She puts the tray of food onto the roof of the car, then runs a self-conscious hand down the front of her t-shirt, drawing his eyes to the soft curves of her body. Three months ago, if someone had told him Sara Tancredi would be sharing his clothes – amongst other things – he would have directed them to the Whack Shack. She runs her fingers through her still-damp hair, pulling it back and securing firmly with an elastic band. “Exactly what does that mean?”

He glances around the parking lot, trying to find the right words. In the end, though, there’s only way one to say it. “There’s another safe house in New Mexico.”

She stares at him. “What about Panama?”

“That’s still a work in progress.” Understatement of the year, he thinks dryly. He slips his hand into his pocket, wrapping his fingers around the car keys, once again trying to find the right words. There’s something else he needs to tell her, and he needs to tell her now, before they start moving again. “But that house on the beach? It will have a guest room,” he mutters, suddenly unable to meet her eyes, suddenly wanting this, wanting everything, wanting far too much. “Just in case anyone wanted to come and stay for a while.”

He lifts his gaze to hers in time to see a dozen different emotions flickering across her face. “You really are a Boy Scout, aren’t you?” Her words are teasing, but all he sees is the quiet longing shining in her eyes.

“You’re not so unprepared yourself, Doctor Tancredi,” he shoots back, suddenly feeling as though he could sprint to Panama and back before lunch. “I guess nice girls do keep condoms in their purses.”

She blushes and glances down at the tray of food, then looks up at him through her eyelashes. It’s a look he remembers well from the infirmary, but this time it almost scorches him clean through to the bone. “I told you once before, Michael, nice girls finish last.”

He stares at her, his body suffused with a rush of heated memory. God.

“So you did.” Knowing he needs to get them back on the road before he does something incredibly rash, he closes the distance between them and reaches for the newspaper she’s tucked under her arm. His knuckles brush the curve of her breast – accidentally, he’d like to think – and he hears her breath catch in time with his own. Her eyes darken, swimming with the memory of the night before, and he’s suddenly drowning, wanting to push her against the car and kiss her, hard and deep, here in the morning sunlight, right here in the open.

Newspaper, his brain insists, and his body reluctantly agrees. He gives her a slow smile – knowing his baser thoughts are still plastered all over his face – then spreads the newspaper out over the hood of the car. Funny that he once used to think of newspapers as something to be read over morning coffee then forgotten and discarded. That life now seems a very long time ago.

He shakes his head, then begins to search the front page. Half a minute later, he it gives him a perverse sense of pleasure to see that Caroline Reynold’s numbers have hit a record low for a newly sworn-in President. When he sees Frank Tancredi’s photograph at the top of a nearby article, his first thought is that it’s yet another story about Sara. He soon realises it’s worse, so much worse.

Governor of Illinois, Frank Tancredi, was found dead in his home early this morning. Early findings by the coroner indicate suicide as the cause of death, and police have released a statement saying there were no suspicious circumstances. Governor Tancredi was yesterday dropped as the running mate for President Caroline Reynolds. Sources close to the Administration have been quoted as saying Governor Tancredi had recently been struggling with depression. Authorities are attempting to contact his only surviving relative, his daughter Sara Tancredi. Ms. Tancredi is currently on bail relating to charges of aiding and abetting during the recent Fox River Penitentiary escape.

He stares at the words, feeling as though someone is squeezing the breath from his lungs. He’d always thought that ‘blood running cold’ was simply an expression; now he knows it’s not.

“What is it?” At the sound of Sara’s voice, he tears his gaze away from the words that are going to destroy her. Guilt and dread stealing his voice, he stares at her in silence. Her smile falters, then dies. “Michael?”

The urge to turn the page and pretend everything’s fine is almost overwhelming, but he can’t protect her from this. He takes a step towards her, holding out his hand, curling his fingers around her arm as she moves closer. I’m so sorry, he tells her silently, his hand tightening on her arm as though that might give her strength.

Frowning, she stares down at the paper spread over the hood of the car, her gaze searching for the reason for his shocked silence. A few seconds later, her eyes widen, comprehension and disbelief hitting her like a sucker punch. She steps back, a choked sound tearing from her throat, then she’s falling, collapsing in slow motion in front of his eyes.

He catches her before she hits the ground, lowering her gently until she’s half-sitting, half sprawled on the hard ashphalt. Crouching beside her, he gathers her in his arms, saying her name over and over again because he can’t think of anything else to say, because there’s nothing he can say, no platitudes that can overpower the words pounding in his head.

This is my fault. All my fault.

Sara is shaking violently, her face milk-white. “They killed him.” The words are little more than a harsh sob and, feeling beyond helpless, he pulls her closer until her shoulder presses hard against his chest, his lips almost grazing her temple. She’s still shaking, her hands wrapped around his forearms, her fingernails digging into his skin through his shirt, a sickening echo of the memory of her shuddering with pleasure in his arms only hours earlier. “Oh God, they killed him.”

“I’m so sorry,” he whispers, knowing it’s totally inadequate, knowing she’s not really hearing him, but unable to stay silent in the face of her grief.

She shakes her head, then pushes him away. Turning her back to him, she’s suddenly retching, choking on her grief, her fingers clawing at the ground as her shoulders begin to shake.

Knowing from personal experience that she won’t welcome his help at this particular moment, he grabs the last clean t-shirt from the duffle bag, then one of the bottles of water. By the time he’s dampened the cotton shirt she’s grown quiet and still, and the fact she’s not crying worries him much more than her violent physical reaction.

Heartsick, he crouches beside her once more, the bottle of water lying at his feet, and presses his palm against her forehead. Her skin is hot and dry, her eyes unfocused. Shit. Cupping her chin, he dabs at her tear-stained face with the damp t-shirt, gently wiping her mouth. “Sara.” She won’t look at him, her head drooping once more, as though she can’t bear the weight of her thoughts. He reaches for the water, then for her. “Drink this.”

She looks at him with dazed eyes, making no move to take the now uncapped bottle from his hand. Stifling the urge to pull her into his arms, he touches her face with his fingertips, pushing back tangled strands of damp auburn hair from her pale skin. “Please?”

Her eyes suddenly focus on the bottle in his hand, and she reaches for it with trembling fingertips. He watches her carefully as she downs almost half the bottle in one gulp, as though she’s trying to drown the burning in her throat. She sits back on her heels, and he hastily grabs the water from her limp hand. Neither of them speak for what feels like a very long time, then she mumbles almost inaudibly, her words directed at the ground between her feet. “I should have been there.”

There’s enough guilt in her voice for both of them, and his heart breaks for her all over again. “If you’d been there, you’d be dead now.” He rubs his hand up and down the length of her spine, trying to calm her, but the tension in her body doesn’t ease.

“This can’t be happening,” she chokes out in a broken whisper, and he puts a gentle hand on her shoulder.

“I’m so sorry.”

She nods, but she still won’t look at him. “You said this thing was bigger than you’d ever imagined.”

Her voice is flat and dead and it makes him want to weep. I’m so sorry, Sara. “Yes.”

“How high does it go?” She finally looks at him, and there’s a hardness in her face he’s never seen before.

“All the way to the top,” he says bluntly, and he sees the impact of his words hit her like a slap.

She grows even paler – he wouldn’t have thought it possible – and he feels her tense beneath his touch. Sucking in a long, harsh breath, she stares at him with glittering eyes. “We can’t just keep running.” She shakes her head, her mouth trembling. “Can’t let them get away with what they’ve done.”

He wants nothing more than to pull her into his arms, but he knows that’s not what she wants. She wants answers. “I know. But we can’t do anything if we’re dead, either.”

One of the cell phones begins to ring in the duffle bag in the backseat of the car. He doesn’t want to leave her, but he can’t ignore what can only be a call from his brother. Keeping his hand on her shoulder - she’s still trembling – he gets to his feet and manages to pluck the phone from his bag through the open car window.

The caller ID holds no surprises. “It’s Linc,” he tells her, then flips open the phone. “Hey.”

“I’m in Flagstaff,” his brother announces without preamble.

Michael frowns. “What’s wrong?”

“Whole place is crawling with cops.”

His stomach lurches. “Are you okay?”

“Few close calls, but it’s all good.”

He closes his eyes in despair. Christ, everything’s as far from ‘all good’ as possible, but Linc has enough on his plate right now without being told about the Governor. “What about LJ?”

“They’re holding him overnight in the local Juvie, but he’s being transferred to Klipton tomorrow afternoon.”

Michael frowns. LJ was supposed to have been taken directly to the Klipton facility in Kingman, not spend a few nights cooling his heels in juvenile hall. “They’re waiting for you to make a move.”

“I know.” Linc exhales loudly, and Michael wonders how long it’s been since he slept. “I need you here, Michael.”

He opens his eyes to find Sara staring at him, and he feels the unpleasant sensation of being slowly torn in two. He has to look away, not wanting to make plans to leave her behind in the face of her intent gaze. “Okay, listen carefully,” he begins, frantically calculating time and distance. “I can get to you by noon tomorrow.”

Linc hesitates. “What about your passenger?”

“I’ll work something out.”

“Fine. Call me when you get to Winslow.”

“I will.” His fingers tighten around the phone, and he bites back the urge to remind his brother to keep a low profile. “Be careful.”

“You too.”

Sara is sitting cross-legged on the ground, her head bowed, her eyes open and staring at nothing. He snaps the phone shut, and she looks up at him with red-rimmed eyes. “What’s happened?”

“Linc’s hit a snag.” Understatement of the century, he thinks. “I’m so sorry to do this to you now, Sara, but I have to accelerate our timeframe.” The prospect of leaving her behind, even if it’s for her own safety, is an extremely unwelcome one. But it’s not the first unpleasant task he’s had to face, and he knows now just how far he’s prepared to go to keep her safe. “If we risk the main highways, we can get to the safe house in New Mexico by-”

“No.” She looks at him, her eyes dark with grief. “I’m not leaving you.”

He stares at her, his throat tightening, torn between exultation and fear. “It’s going to be dangerous.”

“I know.” She tilts back her head to look him in the eye. “But I’ve lost everything I cared about, Michael.” She stumbles over the words, her voice breaking with every unsteady breath. “Everything except you, so don’t tell me that it’s too dangerous to be with you because right now, I really don’t give a damn.”

She’s telling him everything he’s ever wanted to know, and the cruel timing of it makes him want to rail at the universe. No longer able to stop himself from touching her, he reaches down and grips her by the elbows, pulling her to her feet and into his arms. She feels so fragile, even though he knows now she’s one of the strongest people he’s ever met. Tightening his arms around her, he pulls her hard against him, the curves of her body fitting perfectly into his. She lets out a shaky breath, her forehead pressing into his shoulder, her cheek warm against his neck.

He doesn’t know how long they stand there like that, holding onto each other, holding each other up, but slowly the tremors wracking her body begin to ease. “I’m so, so sorry,” he whispers then, and she finally begins to cry.

She cries for a long time, her face buried against his shoulder, and again a feeling of utter helplessness washes over him. He presses his lips to her temple, tasting her too-hot skin. “It will be okay, Sara,” he whispers. “I’ll make this right. Just give me a little time.”

He holds her as she weeps, the early morning light around them growing brighter by the minute. “We have to go,” he tells her softly as he strokes her face, curling his hand around the nape of her neck. He hates pushing her, but the truck stop is becoming busier, filling with travellers who also like to read the newspaper each morning. Her arms tighten around his waist at his words, but she nods against his shoulder.

“I know.”

She lets him take her hand and usher her into the passenger seat, her fingers cold and limp in his grasp. The forgotten tray of food and coffee safely stowed on the seat between them, he waits until she adjusts her seatbelt, her movements slow and awkward, then puts the car into reverse. A few minutes later, they’re back on the road, once again heading towards Flagstaff, Arizona - and Lincoln. A silence settles over them like a shroud, thick and heavy and filled with too many unspoken words.

“I need to pick up another police scanner,” he says softly. She nods, but says nothing, simply putting on her sunglasses and staring at the road ahead.

He swears silently. Of all the possible post-escape aftershocks he’d considered, the death of Frank Tancredi had never been one of them. He thinks about telling Sucre that he’d ruined Sara’s life, and a hard knot of guilt starts to burn in the pit of his stomach. At the time he’d prayed he was exaggerating, trying to prepare himself for the worst case scenario. No amount of preparation could have readied him for this.

Lincoln’s life in exchange for her father’s, he thinks before he can stop himself, then tries to push the thought away because it’s not as simple as that and if he lets himself believe it, there’s no finding their way back from this.

“If you want to talk-” he begins hesitantly, but she shakes her head.

“I don’t,” she replies in a clipped tone, then adds with an obvious effort, “but thank you.”

She still won’t look at him, and his heart begins to sink under the weight of the distance between them. She’s sitting no more than an arm’s length from him, but she may as well be a thousand miles away, and he suddenly afraid that there’s nothing that will ever make this right.


~*~



She refuses to eat any of the food she’d bought earlier, but gives into his coaxing to drink her still-hot coffee. Ten minutes later, he’s pulling the car off the road, his heart aching for her as her stomach once again rebels.

“I’ll be fine,” she tells him flatly when she returns to the car, but her eyes are glassy, her normally pale skin almost translucent. She swigs some water, then scrabbles around in the depths of her handbag, coming up with a battered packet of grape-flavoured gum.

“I can pick something up for you when we hit Springfield.”

“I’m fine,” she says again, turning her head away to stare at the world rushing past them.

He knows he shouldn’t take her remoteness to heart. He knows she’s struggling just to stay upright and functioning. Piled onto her grief and her guilt and the anger he can feel simmering in her are two nights spent sleeping rough and hours on the road. She’d be more than entitled to crawl into the back seat and curl into a ball, but he knows she won’t. She might be dying inside, but she won’t leave him to make this journey alone.

He knows all this, but it still doesn’t stop his stomach from curling up at the edges every time she doesn’t look at him, doesn’t speak to him. He takes a few deep breaths, his nose filling with the sweet smell of grape gum, and tells himself that she’ll talk to him when she’s ready.

After what they’d shared last night, it’s cold comfort.

The Target in Springfield, Missouri, looks like every other Target he’s ever seen, and for some strange reason that doesn’t seem quite right. Everything else in his world has been turned on its head, after all. He parks in a far corner of the lot, then begins to count his sadly depleted wad of cash.

“I have some money if we need it.”

He looks at her. They’re the first words she’s uttered for the last two hours, and her use of the word we makes him sit up a little straighter. “I’m sorry to have to ask you for it, but not sorry enough not to take it,” he quips lightly.

She doesn’t smile, but the taut frown between her eyebrows softens. “I’m sure you’ll pay me back.”

Between them they manage to come up with just under five hundred dollars. “Is there anything you want me to get for you?”

She shakes her head then turns away, and he sees that her eyes are damp behind her dark sunglasses. He wants to reach out to her, even if just to put a comforting hand on her shoulder, but he knows that would be a mistake. “I’ll be back as soon as I can. Keep the engine running, okay?”

She nods, still staring out the window, and it’s almost a relief to escape into the air-conditioned, muzak-permeated store.

He heads to the hardware department first. With Sara’s financial contribution, he should have enough for the equipment he needs. He hopes, anyway. He’s more than prepared to wear the same clothes all week if necessary, but he’d rather not.

It doesn’t take long for the sales assistant to come up with a reasonably priced scanner, then something else snags his attention. “And I’ll take that GPS logger as well,” he says, pointing into the glass-topped cabinet.

The man gives him a polite but quizzical look. “Going on vacation?”

Michael forces a smile. “Something like that.”

He quickly makes his way to the women’s clothing department, then stops in his tracks. He knows a lot of facts and figures about Sara Tancredi, but her dress size isn’t one of them. He hesitates for a moment, then grabs a few pairs of sweatpants with matching t-shirts, deciding that drawstring waistbands are an easy solution.

His other purchases on Sara’s behalf aren’t quite so simple. He stares at the racks of lace and cotton for a moment, the closes his eyes, remembering the weight of her breasts in his hands, the soft warmth of her filling his palms. He remembers how his hands had easily spanned the width of her hips. Taking a deep breath, he does the math in his head and a few minutes later there’s two cotton bras and a five-pack of brightly coloured bikini underpants in his plastic basket.

Michael shakes his head as he leaves the lingerie section and swiftly cuts through a kitchenware aisle. He’d never thought he’d be using his draftsman’s skills for buying women’s underwear, that’s for certain. He’d also thought he was beyond blushing at the mere sight of women’s underwear. Apparently he’d been mistaken on both counts.

After a quick forage into the menswear department, he smiles at the young female cashier at the front of the store. “How are you today?”

She barely spares him a glance as she begins to ring up his purchases. “Okay.”

Michael watches the register anxiously as the amount owing grows, his fingers tapping against the wad of cash in his pocket. Come on, come on. Finally, she scans the last item – a three pack of grey undershirts – and looks at him without interest. “That’ll be three twenty-five and fifteen cents.”

He lets out his breath. Thank you, Sara. He hands over three hundred and thirty dollars with a smile. “Don’t worry about the change.”

“I have to give you your change, sir,” she replies shortly as she scoops coins out of the register and drops them into his hand. “Have a nice day.”

He’s taken no more than a few steps towards the exit when there’s suddenly a store security guard at his shoulder, one hand resting on the walkie-talkie clipped onto his belt. Michael’s blood chills, but he manages an easy smile. “Hey, how are ya?”

The guard’s gaze narrows, and Michael is unpleasantly reminded of Brad Bellick. “Can I check your receipt please, sir?”

It’s no stretch of his acting abilities to look puzzled. “What’s the problem?”

“Just a routine check,” the guard drawls, his gaze flicking over Michael’s shoulder. “We’ve been having some problems with operator errors.” His gaze connects with Michael’s once more, his dark eyes glittering with something akin to recognition, and the little voice at the back of Michael’s head whispers one urgent word.

Run.

“I’d like to help you out with your employee problems, buddy,” Michael tells him in the warmest drawl he can manage, feeling suddenly as though he going to join Sara in being sick. “But I’m on my way to visit the in-laws and my wife’s waiting for me in the car and there’s nothing on God’s green earth worth me making her wait more than she likes, if you know what I’m saying?”

He sees uncertainty flicker across the guard’s face, and quickly seizes his chance. “Have a nice day.” Tugging on the brim of his cap, he nods and turns on his heel, reaching the automatic doors in four long strides.

His heart pounding, sweat prickling down the length of his spine, he steps out into the sunshine, every muscle in his body straining with the urge to look over his shoulder, one word still pounding in his head.

Run.

Sara catches sight of him when he’s just over halfway across the parking lot. Undoing her seat belt, she opens the passenger side door, then slides across into the driver’s seat. She’s already gunning the engine by the time he gets one foot inside the vehicle, and he barely has time to slam the door shut before the car is moving.

“Put your seatbelt on,” she almost snaps as she puts her foot on the accelerator, and he is only too happy to comply. He hadn’t realised she was such a demon behind the wheel, he thinks, hanging onto the safely strap as she takes a sharp corner, jerks the wheel to dodge three parked cars, then merges swiftly into the midday traffic.

Five minutes later, finally sure they’re not being tailed, his breathing returns to normal, the churning in his stomach subsiding. She darts him a quick look of concern. “What happened?”

He pulls off his cap and runs his hand over his hair. His scalp is damp with sweat. “The security guard half-recognised me as I was leaving the store. I didn't want to wait around for him to be sure.” He gives her a puzzled glance. "How did you know there was a problem?"

She shrugs, looking faintly embarrassed. "Just something about the way you looked." She says nothing for a long moment, then mutters, “I’m sorry.”

He frowns at her. “Why?”

She checks the rearview mirror, then changes lanes. “I should have been the one to go in there.”

It’s the longest conversation they’ve had in hours, and he knows it shouldn’t matter so much that she’s finally talking, but it does. “Don’t worry about it.”

She glances at him again, her face a portrait of internal conflict. She swallows hard, then turns back to the road. “I can’t help worrying,” she says awkwardly, her eyes hidden by her dark glasses. “I don’t want to lose you.”

Death is all around them but the stilted words still make him want to smile, and he wonders what kind of man that makes him.


~*~


He sets up the police scanner while she drives, conscious of her reluctant curiosity. She keeps glancing across to him, then finally asks, “They sell those to anyone? Just like that?”

He adjusts a few more settings, then the low crackle of voices fills the car. “Yep.” He looks up at her with a wry smile. “God bless America.”

She drives for the next hour - an hour in which he hears nothing about either himself or Lincoln over the police band - then tells him she needs a break, rubbing her temples with her fingertips.

“Headache?”

“A little,” she admits, pulling into the driveway of a rundown gas station. “I’ll be okay.”

He waits while she puts twenty bucks worth of gas in the tank, unconsciously breathing a sigh of relief when she returns to the car after paying. Is this how it was always going to be, feeling as though he has to watch over her every move, always suspecting the worst case scenario?

They travel without speaking for a while, the scanner turned down just low enough to hear but not be intrusive, then he counts to ten and starts to speak. “I never knew my father.”

He hears her inhale sharply, as though he’s just pressed his thumb down on a fresh cut in her skin. “I know,” she finally replies, her voice low and flat.

“I was in foster care from the time I was eight years old.”

He’s watching the road, but he still feels the sharp look she gives him. “I didn’t know that.”

“Linc too, but he ended up spending more time in Juvie than with me.” The words sound bitter, even to his own ears, but he doesn’t care. Now is not the time for him to be sugar-coating his feelings, not with her.

When she speaks again, the hollow tone of her voice is tinged with empathy. “That must have been tough on you.”

He shrugs. “I survived.” He glances at her, encouraged by the fact that she’s looking at him rather than staring out the window. “But all my life I’d wondered if it was my fault that he left us.” He can’t quite believe he’s saying these things to her, but if he’s learned anything about his relationship with this woman, it’s that nothing should surprise him. “If it was the thought of me being on the way that made him bail.”

“But now you know that’s not the reason why, right?”

“Hearing a second-hand story about trying to keep us safe doesn’t really stack up against thirty-odd years of thinking it was my fault.”

She’s silent for so long that he wonders if she’s crying again, but then she speaks, her voice brittle. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Your father loved you, Sara.”

She sucks in another sharp breath. “I know.”

He hates this. He hates pushing her, but he knows the longer she tries to pretend it didn’t happen, the worse it will get. “You couldn’t have saved him.”

“You don’t know that, Michael,” she chokes out, her voice thick with tears.

“These people we’re up against,” he says gently, fighting the urge to pull the car over to the side of the road and haul her into his arms, “were prepared to murder the President of the United States to get what they wanted. You and your father were just pocket change to them.”

He glances at her again, his heart twisting at her stricken expression, and he suddenly realises tough love only works when your heart’s in it. Right now, he can’t bear to cause her any more pain than he already has, and he wants nothing more than to swallow every word he’s just said. “You couldn’t have saved him,” he tells her one more time, praying that one day she’ll believe him.

She shakes her head wordlessly as she wraps her arms around herself, and he knows that today is not going to be that day.



~*~



Another cheap hotel, another furtive check-in. Sara once again looks after the logistics - simply climbing out of the car before he has a chance to broach the subject - and he doesn’t let himself read anything into the fact that she asks for a double rather than a twin. Staying here will eat into what little money they have left, but he wants her to have a real night's sleep. And - to be brutally honest - if it means being able to sleep with her in a real bed, he would have happily paid three times the motel's usual rate.

Shutting the door behind him, he leans back against it, splaying his hands out on the smooth wood. “I got you some clothes and-” he feels a foolish rush of heat prickle the back of his neck, “and a few other things.”

She doesn’t glance at the two plastic bags she’s just dropped on the foot of the double bed. “Thank you.”

“If you want to talk-”

“I don’t.”

“Sara-”

“I can’t do this now, Michael.” With that, she walks into the adjoining bathroom and slams the door behind her.

He stares at the closed door for a moment, the urge to go after her itching at him like a rash, then drops onto the bed. Grabbing one of the plastic bags, he begins to assemble the other piece of equipment he’d bought that morning, but his thoughts keep straying to the woman hiding from him in the next room.

God help him, he truly hadn’t intended for things to go as far as they did last night. The whole deal with the food and the blanket – all he’d wanted to do was make things easier between them, to make her feel better.

Michael closes his eyes, the GPS logger in his hand momentarily forgotten. Yeah, right.

That may have been his intention up to the moment he’d kissed her, but it had become a lie the instant his mouth had touched hers. She’d kissed him back, holding onto him as though he was the only thing in the world she knew, and all his good intentions had been ground into dust.

He stares at the device in his hands. He’d tell himself he’s not entirely sure why he bought it, but that would be just another lie. His priority had always been to get his brother across the border, but somewhere along the way – perhaps from the moment he met her – his plans had started to include Sara Tancredi. He can no longer pretend that he doesn't want her with him when this nightmare is over. And if doing this - spying on her, his conscience protests – is a way to make sure that happens, to keep her safe, then he’s prepared to do it.

I’ll tell her about it when she comes out of the bathroom, he decides, trying to appease his uneasy conscience, but it doesn’t work. He paces slowly back and forth across the room, at war with himself.

Is it wrong if it’s to keep her safe? Just when does the line between protection and stalking begin and end?

Two minutes later, having stifled his qualms about rifling through her possessions, the base unit is in his duffle bag and the dime-sized tracker is hidden underneath the lining at the bottom of her handbag. He smooths down the tear in the seam of the lining, then his fingers brush a familiarly shaped object. It’s her cell phone, the one she’d turned it off when they’d left the safe house the day before yesterday, after she’d listened to her father’s message.

Oh, God. He pulls the phone out of her bag and turns it on, suddenly feeling sick to his stomach and utterly furious with himself. This phone was the only way her father knew how to contact her. What if he’d tried to call her before he -

“What are you doing?”

He hadn’t heard the bathroom door open. His heart in his mouth, he turns to her, holding up her cell phone. “It might be a good idea to check the messages on your phone.”

She looks at him blankly, then her face crumples as realisation hits her. Crossing the room in three steps, she grabs the phone from his hand and begins to scroll through the menu. “One missed call,” she says dully, not looking at him.

She sinks down onto the bed as she listens to the message, and he can only watch helplessly as silent tears begin to course down her face. Her head bows, then - just as she had in the van two days earlier – she hands the phone to him without a word so he can replay the message.

Frank Tancredi’s voice sounds more strained than Michael has ever heard it, and the man had done a hell of a lot of sound bites over the years. “My plane’s boarding in ten minutes, Sara, but I didn’t want to leave this until I landed.” Michael presses the phone against his ear, straining to hear over the background noise. “I have something for you. You’ll find it in the place your mother loved best.” His voice breaks off, and Michael silently marvels at such emotion in man he’d always though of as hard and cold. “You were right, Sara, and I’m so sorry.”

Michael flips the phone shut, and they look at each other in silence. Finally, he asks softly, “Do you know what he’s talking about?”

She wipes her wet face, her eyes glittering, then shakes her head, a frown tugging at her brow. “No.”

“He’s left something for you to find. Somewhere safe, somewhere only you would know.” He touches the back of her hand, skimming his fingertips across her skin. It is, he realises sadly, the first time she’s let him touch her in hours.

She screws up her face in concentration, then shakes her head again. “I don’t know where he’s talking about.”

“Think, Sara.” He doesn’t want to push her, not after everything that’s happened today, but he can’t let this chance slip through his fingers. “This could be the key to exonerating my brother.”

“I told you, I don’t know!” she abruptly snaps at him, her eyes suddenly glittering with anger rather than tears. “I don’t know where he means, Michael. All I know right now is that my father is dead and I can’t even be there to bury him.”

He recoils from the sting in her words. “I’m sorry.”

She gets to her feet. “I need some air.”

“I’ll come with you.”

She puts up her hand. “I need a minute, Michael.” She looks angry and beyond tired, exhaustion etched across the lines of her face, and it breaks his heart to think that he may have already lost her. “I won’t be long.” She picks up her purse and slings it over her shoulder. He stares at her, unable to hide the sudden panic that wells up inside him.

Her tight expression softens faintly, and he knows she has read his reaction all too easily. “I’m just going to the vending machine.”

“Right.” He tries to sound casual. He can’t. He slips his hands into his pockets, not wanting her to see that they’re shaking, not wanting her to know how afraid he is of losing her a second time.

She takes a half-step towards him, her hand tightening on the shoulder strap of her purse. “I told you this morning that I wasn’t going to leave you.” She finally catches his gaze, her toffee-coloured eyes burning into his. “I meant it.”

“I’m so sorry.” The words feel thick and heavy on his tongue. He’s so tired of saying them, so tired of knowing that saying them will never be enough. “For everything.”

“I don’t blame you for-” she breaks off, her voice shaking, then tries again. “I don’t.”

“Maybe you should.”

She doesn’t say anything. She just looks at him sadly, then walks to the door. In a few seconds, she’s pulling it shut behind her and his own phone has begun to ring.

“Damn it!” He looks at the closed door, then at his phone, lying next to the police scanner on the small table beside the bed. It can only be Linc, and to be hearing from him again so soon can only be a bad sign. Crossing the room, he snatches up the phone, answering it as he goes back to the window beside the door.

“Linc?” He pushes aside the curtain as he says his brother’s name, but he can't see Sara. She must have already turned the corner to head towards the vending machine outside the manager’s office, he thinks.

As usual, Linc doesn’t bother with the trivialities of a formal greeting. “LJ’s just been given a full pardon.”

Michael feels his mouth drop open. “What?”

“It’s all over the wire – they’re releasing him tomorrow morning.”

He turns his head to look at the police scanner. He hadn’t been monitoring it since they checked in – there’d been too many other things happening. Still staring out the window, he shakes his head as though his brother can see him. “You know it’s a trap, Linc.”

“He’s my son, Michael.”

He blows out a frustrated breath, knowing there’s no counter argument to that particular statement. “We have another problem.”

“What?”

“Sara’s father was found dead in his home early this morning. Suicide, or so the story goes.”

Lincoln swears softly. “Un-fucking-believable.” There’s a pause, then he asks, “She’s still with you?”

“Yes.”

“That’s going to be risky.”

Michael’s jaw clenches. “No riskier than leaving her behind to fend for herself.”

“Will she be able to keep up?”

Despite everything, Michael smiles, thinking of the way Sara had burned out of the Target parking lot earlier that day. “Definitely.”

“Tell her-” his brother hesitates, then says, “Tell her I’m sorry about her father.”

“I will,” he replies distractedly as he peers through the window. Even for someone wanting a moment alone, it’s taking Sara far too long to visit the vending machine. “I’ll call you when we reach Winslow.”

Slipping the phone and the room key into his pocket, he steps out into the cool evening air. He can see their car clearly, immediately dashing any hope she might be retrieving something she’d left behind. His heart beginning to race, he pulls the door shut behind him and walks towards the manager’s office, trying to look everywhere at once.

The vending machine is in a small alcove beside the office. There’s a crumpled dollar bill on the ground and there’s no sign of Sara. For the third time that day, his blood runs cold, because if Sara’s not here and she’s not in the car and she’s not in their room, there’s only one place she can be, and that’s gone.



~*~

~*~



Lincoln’s voice brims with quiet satisfaction. “LJ’s just been given a full pardon.”

Michael feels his mouth drop open. “What?”

“It’s all over the wire — they’re releasing him tomorrow morning.”

He turns his head to look at the police scanner. He hadn’t been monitoring it since they checked in — there’d been too many other things happening. Still staring out the window, he shakes his head as though his brother can see him. “You know it’s a trap, Linc.”

“He’s my son, Michael.”

He blows out a frustrated breath, knowing there’s no counter argument to that particular statement. “We have another problem.”

“What?”

“Sara’s father was found dead in his home early this morning. Suicide, or so the story goes.”

Lincoln swears softly. “Un-fucking-believable.” There’s a pause, then he asks, “She’s still with you?”

“Yes.”

“That’s going to be risky.”

Michael’s jaw clenches. “No riskier than leaving her behind to fend for herself.”

“Will she be able to keep up?”

Despite everything, Michael smiles, thinking of the way Sara had burned out of the Target parking lot earlier that day. “Definitely.”

“Tell her-” his brother hesitates, then says, “Tell her I’m sorry about her father.”

“I will,” he replies distractedly as he peers through the window. Even for someone wanting a moment alone, it’s taking Sara far too long to visit the vending machine. “I’ll call you when we reach Winslow.”

Slipping the phone and the room key into his pocket, he steps out into the cool evening air. He can see their car clearly, immediately dashing any hope she might be retrieving something she’d left behind. His heart beginning to race, he pulls the door shut behind him and walks towards the manager’s office, trying to look everywhere at once.

The vending machine is in a small alcove beside the office. There’s a crumpled dollar bill on the ground and there’s no sign of Sara. For the third time that day, his blood runs cold, because if Sara’s not here and she’s not in the car and she’s not in their room, there’s only one place she can be, and that’s gone.

He stares at the abandoned dollar bill, wondering how it was possible to be frozen in place and yet feel as though his whole body is shaking. Whispers of suspicion and fear begin to snake through his mind, taunting him, pulling him from one dark place to another even darker.

She took her bag with her.

No. She said she wasn’t going to leave. She wouldn’t have lied.

She’s just lost her father because of you. You can’t blame her if she did lie.

He picks up the crumpled bill from the ground, unconsciously smoothing it out over and over again, struggling to pull himself back from the edge of blind panic. The GPS tracker is in her purse, but if she's left him of her own free will-

Swallowing hard, he folds the dollar bill with careful fingers before sliding it into the pocket of his trousers. Drawing his reading glasses from the same pocket, he begins to stride towards the front office. Perhaps Sara had been there to call for a taxi or enquired about public transport-

Once again, he breaks off, pushing the thought away. She’d said she wouldn’t leave, and she’s never lied to me, not once.

There’s a simple way to know for sure.

The middle-aged hotel manager is gray around the temples and thick around the middle. Pulling his gaze reluctantly from the small television on the desk behind the wire grille - he’s watching a game show rather than the news, thank God - he fixes Michael with a polite stare. “Checking in?”

“I’m not sure,” Michael gives the man his most obsequious smile. It feels oddly frozen on his face. “I was supposed to meet a friend of mine here but she’s turned her cell phone off and I’m not sure if she’s checked in or not yet.”

The manager looks him up and down, his pepper-and-salt eyebrows arched. “You’d be the unsuitable boyfriend, then?”

Michael stares at him. “What do you mean?'

The man shrugs, his gaze darting sideways to the television screen. “Her brother came here looking for her just now, wanting to know if she was here alone. Said she'd run out on her dad's funeral, all upset like, and the family were worried that she’d met up with some lowlife she’d been seeing behind her Daddy’s back.” He glances back at Michael. “I’m surprised you didn’t run into him outside.”

A cold wave of nausea ripples through the pit of Michael’s stomach. No. God, no. “What did you tell him?” he hears himself ask.

“Personally, I’m not inclined to be getting involved with family squabbles and if his sister was shacked up with someone that was her business, but he seemed to think that the poor girl wasn’t thinking straight due to their sad loss.”

Gripping the sharp edge of the check-in counter until his knuckles turn white, Michael forces himself to smile politely. “Did you tell him she was here alone?”

“I did. Thought it would put the poor man’s mind at ease.” The manager gives him a knowing look. “I guess I was wrong about that, though, huh?” He shrugs again. “He got pretty ticked off when I wouldn’t tell him her room number, but I run a professional place here.”

Michael steps back from the counter, his words feeling like sandpaper in his throat. “Thank you, you’ve been very kind.”

An odd flicker of something that looks almost like sympathy crosses the man’s face. “Listen, if you want to leave a message I’ll make sure she gets it.”

“No, it’s fine,” Michael demurs as he turns towards the office door. “I’m sure she’ll call me when she can.”

The manager nods, his attention already returning to the television, then Michael’s outside in the cool evening air once more, his gaze urgently scanning the parking lot. The only cars are the same vehicles he’d noted when he and Sara had first arrived, and his last vestige of hope slides away. His heart racing, he walks swiftly back to their hotel room, one single thought pounding in his head.

They’ve taken her.


~*~



“Come on!” Michael thumps the GPS unit onto the small desk, then finishes throwing their belongings back into his duffle bag. The new clothes he’d bought had spilled out onto the bed when Sara had dumped the plastic bags, and he impatiently gathers them up, his whole body tensing in anticipation of hearing the high-pitched beep that will tell him he’s managed to lock onto Sara’s whereabouts.

It doesn’t come.

He swears angrily under his breath, fighting the urge to hurl the cheap piece of equipment at the closest wall, then he swings the duffle bag over his shoulder, snatching up the plastic bags from the bed as he heads for the door.

Until he can get a lock on her position, there’s every chance he’ll be traveling in the wrong direction, but he can’t sit here and do nothing. He knows she’s still carrying her own cell phone, but he can’t risk calling it. All he can do is keep trying to hone in on the signal from the tracker in her handbag and pray like hell that he’s driving in the right direction.

Having left the room key on the bed and the door unlocked, he jogs to the car and throws the bags onto the backseat, telling himself that he will find her, trying not to think of the fact that he has no weapon, no money and no fucking idea as to where they’ve taken her.

He reverses the car, the GPS unit on the seat beside him, wedged against his thigh, still going through its painfully slow setup process. If only he’d thought to activate it sooner, but the possibility of having to use it this evening hadn’t occurred to him, even though it damned well should have done. He’d let himself become distracted by Frank Tancredi’s posthumous message and Lincoln’s phone call when he should have been taking every single security measure possible.

When he reaches the end of the hotel driveway, he hesitates. Left or right, right or left. The wrong decision could mean Sara’s life. A hopeless sense of rage bubbles up inside him and he slams his palm against the steering wheel, barely noticing the dull stinging in his hand. His fault. All his fault. She was only here because she trusted him to keep her safe, and now-

His throat tightens, then he pulls the wheel to the right. As he puts his foot on the accelerator, trying not to let himself calculate the number of miles per minute that Sara could be getting further away from him with every passing moment. He drives, trying and failing not to think of everything that stealing back his brother’s life may have cost.

He presses the reset button on the cheap GPS unit, once again cursing the unavoidable fact that it was the best he’d been able to afford. It’s not enough to distract him from the very real fear that he’s already run out of time. He thinks of Sara’s face, the trust in her eyes as she’d held out her hand and let him pull her into the back of the van, the way her choked cries of grief over her father had reached down into his chest and twisted his heart until all he could see was her sorrow. He thinks of how when he’s with her, even if she’s furiously ignoring him, he feels more whole than he’s felt in a very long time.

He can’t lose her. Not like this.

After the longest twenty minutes he’s ever experienced, the GPS unit beside him finally beeps. He snatches it up with one hand, his heart sinking as the coordinates come up on the screen. “Damn it!” The car’s tires screech as he executes the most ungainly u-turn he’s ever performed in his life, the scent of burning rubber flooding the car. Turning right had been a mistake, but it would be the last one he’d make this evening.

~*~

It’s been two hours since she was taken from him, and he’s felt the passing of every second like a dull blow over his heart. The police scanner is turned down low, the car radio switched off. He doesn’t want to hear any music now, doesn’t want to think of Sara smiling as she tells him a particular song reminds her of college. Doesn’t want to think of her face flushed with passion, her eyes telling him all the heady secrets they’ve both been afraid to believe.

His hands tighten on the wheel, and he wonders if he’s asking too much of the universe to have both his brother and Sara alive and in his life. If he’s tempted fate by wanting too much, wanting it all. If he’s setting himself up for the one thing he never wanted to face, the choice he’s always prayed he’d never have to make.

He tries to push the thought away, but the darkness that whispers inside his head grows to match the darkness of the night skirting the highway ahead of him. There’s a hard knot in the pit of his stomach, clutching at his gut like a grasping fist. Beneath the crackle of the police scanner, he hears the rhythm of the tires on the road, the stinging rebuke that comes with every turn of the wheels. Too late, too late, too late.

If he hadn’t pressed her about her father’s message. If he hadn’t been so caught up in the possibility of finding the key to exonerating Lincoln. If he hadn’t pushed her to the point where she felt she had to get away from him, if only for a few minutes.

He looks at his watch, but he already knows it’s now two hours and ten minutes since she vanished. The fear of losing her is suddenly so real he can taste it at the back of his throat, and he presses his foot on the accelerator a little harder, because this is not how it’s going to end.


~*~


The neon ‘No Vacancy’ at the Super 8 Motel in Broken Arrow, Oklahoma, glows brightly against the moonless night sky. There are sixteen cars in the parking lot, but it only takes Michael five minutes to find one that looks strangely familiar. He stares at the dark blue sedan, at the license plate, and realises with a sickening jolt why the car is familiar. He’d last seen it parked outside Sara’s NA meeting in Chicago. The man she’d known then as Lance had gestured to it as they’d chatted and made plans to go for coffee.

If he’d been in any doubt as to whether the Company had taken Sara, that doubt is now gone.

He parks the Rambler as close to the exit of the parking lot as possible, his mind racing. There is no silver-lining to this situation, but he clings to the hope that the Company would do their best to find out everything Sara knew before adding her name to their long list of casualties. This means he’s hoping for her to have been suffering at their hands rather than killed outright, and he doesn’t want to think about what kind of person hopes for such a thing.

The GPS unit has apparently given him all it has to give, not letting him refine his search to pinpoint an exact location within the motel. He knows that Sara – or her handbag, at least, he thinks with a sudden gulp – is somewhere in this building, but finding her is now solely in his hands.

He forces himself to take another few precious moments to study the building carefully, committing its structure and form to memory, hastily mapping out every possible escape route and dead end. There are twenty-five rooms, but he can’t waste time knocking on every door. Thankfully, there are other methods of detection.

He puts the GPS unit in the trunk but leaves the car unlocked as he slips a cell phone into his pocket. It’s dark with a chill in the air, and the pool area is deserted. Every guest will be in their rooms, going about whatever business it is that brings them to this place, and that includes Sara and her erstwhile friend. He blanches inwardly at the thought, but forces himself to take several deep breaths. Then, walking slowly along the concrete pathway that borders the ground floor, he begins to listen.

Behind the closed doors, he hears children and parents, cartoons on television and muted news bulletins. He hears the sounds of cutlery on plates, of badly tuned radio stations being adjusted in irritation, the everyday conversation of everyday people.

Nothing.

He takes the stairs to the second floor two at a time, his heart pounding, and hears the blaring of the television as soon as he hits the top step. It’s coming from the second room along, the sound turned up so loud that the occupant must legally deaf. Or, Michael thinks grimly as he stares at the closed door, trying to mask other sounds coming from inside the room.

His phone is in his hand and he’s dialing her number before he can convince himself otherwise. Ducking down to avoid passing in front of the blind-covered window, he creeps to the door, pressing one ear against the wood as the call connects in his other. Beneath the raucous noise of the television, he hears it, the faint peal of a cell phone.

Sara.

He draws himself up, putting one hand flat on the door, his pulse quickening. He has no weapon, nothing but his body and his already raw-edged nerves, but that doesn’t matter. It was no less than he’d had in Fox River, and if Sara is behind this door, it will be enough.

As he lifts his hand to knock, he hears a muffled shriek of pain, then the faint but unmistakable sound of scuffling feet. He takes a deep breath and a step backwards, filled with enough angry desperation to believe he might be able to shoulder the door open, but he doesn’t get a chance to try. The door is wrenched open from the inside, then Sara hurtles into him, a blur of bedraggled auburn hair and skin pale with shock.

He lurches backwards at the impact, then her hands are on his chest – oh, God, there’s torn electrical tape around her wrists - and she’s shoving him blindly out of the way. He grabs her by the shoulders, holding her steady. “Sara!”

She stares up at him in shocked disbelief for a heartbeat, then he looks over her shoulder into the room. It takes no more than a few seconds, but it’s a horrific snapshot that Michael sees all too clearly. The smell of burning cloth and flesh hanging in the air. Lance, the Company man, just inside the door leading to the bathroom, struggling to his feet, one hand clutching his chest. The plastic sheet on the carpet in front of the blaring television, the bone saw carelessly tossed to one side.

Fueled by a white-hot anger that completely displaces common sense, Michael takes a step closer to the open doorway. Still half-kneeling on the floor, Lance lifts a gun in one steady hand and points it straight at the back of Sara’s head. “How about you both step inside and shut the door?” he asks in a pleasant voice that raises the hairs on the back of Michael’s neck. “There’s no need for this to get ugly.”

Michael jerks Sara out of the doorway, pulling her to one side with a force that makes her gasp. The string of colourful words from inside the room ringing in his ears, he literally drags Sara down the stairs, adrenalin roaring through him. They hit the bottom step running, Sara’s hands gripping his arm tight, her shoulder wedged against his chest as she matches him stride for stride.

They run across the darkened parking lot, his hand now tightly gripping hers as he does his best to put himself between her and the building behind them. Expecting to feel the roar of gunfire with every step, he thanks whatever deity might be listening that he’d had the foresight to leave the car unlocked, then tears open the driver’s side door and pushes Sara inside.

“Slide across!” he barks, but she’s already there, fumbling with her seatbelt, her wet hair hanging down over her face, dark red against the pallor of her skin. He glances in the rearview mirror as he slams the driver’s side door behind him, and his heart leaps into his throat. Her assailant has reached the bottom of the stairs, one leg looking stiff and awkward, one hand still clutching his chest, the other behind his back.

There are two women walking across the parking lot now, the younger woman carrying a sleeping toddler. Michael grits his teeth and hopes like hell that the Company man isn’t in the mood to gather accidental collateral, then he guns the engine, sending gravel spinning underneath the tires. The car lurches forward with a jerk. Beside him, Sara inhales sharply, but says nothing as he slams his foot on the accelerator, the underside of the car scraping against the edge of the driveway as he pulls out onto the road.

He pushes the old car as fast as he dares, and it’s all he can do to keep his eyes on the road. “Are you hurt?” he demands as he negotiates the light evening traffic, his words roughened by fear. She says nothing, and panic claws at his chest. He reaches out one hand to touch her shoulder. She flinches, instantly slamming him back to Fox River. I’m not going to hurt you. Stricken, he drops his hand, clutching the wheel with a white-knuckled grip as he asks her again, “Sara, are you hurt?!”

Holding her purse in front of her like a shield – he hadn’t realised she’d been carrying it - she sniffs loudly and shakes her head. “I’ll be okay,” she finally tells him, her voice thin and breathless with tears, and something inside him crumbles into a hundred brittle pieces.

He heads west towards Route 51, something he’d hope to avoid but time is no longer on their side, if it ever was. He needs to get to Linc and LJ and he needs to get Sara out of the country as soon as possible. He’s prepared to risk the highway if it means he can keep all of them safe.

Knowing that Sara’s captor may already be tailing them, he deliberately weaves in and out of the traffic around them, putting as many cars between them and the motel as he can. The parking lot had been poorly lit and the Company man may not have got a good look at their car, but he can’t take any chances.

He can’t believe she’s beside him, that he wasn’t too late. Then he looks at her face, pale and drawn, and the tape around her wrists, and he knows that maybe he was too late. Wanting to give her a small measure of quiet, he waits precisely five minutes before he gives in to the question that’s been tearing strips off his heart from the moment she vanished.

“Did he hurt you?”

Sara turns her head slowly, her face wet, her eyes dark and empty, and he feels a hollow sense of déjà vu, filled with the overpowering urge to pull the car over and pull her into his arms. But he can’t, not yet, and just as he did after they’d learned of her father’s death, he keeps driving.

She doesn’t answer him, her silence saying more than any answer could, and he finds himself fumbling for something - anything - to say. “I’m so sorry.” The words have never felt more inadequate, and he’s suddenly ashamed he’s even saying them.

She shakes her head. “It wasn’t about you.” She stares down at her wrists, but makes no move to tear off the ragged duct tape. “He knew about the message my father had left for me,” she whispers unsteadily, “and he seemed to think that I knew exactly what it meant.”

He looks at her, taking his eyes from the road for as long as he dares. Her t-shirt (his t-shirt, he thinks with a dull pang) is soaked through, her bare arms rippled with goosebumps. He’ll think about Frank Tancredi’s legacy later. Right now, he needs to take care of the man’s daughter.

“What did he do to you?” he asks gently, once more reaching across to put a cautious hand on her shoulder, knowing that he doesn’t really need to be told. She’s soaked through to the skin, duct tape still tight around each wrist, and for the first time since he’s known her, she looks every one of her twenty-nine years. It’s an image that will stay with him for a very long time.

My fault. All my fault.

She says nothing as her face tightens, her body tensing underneath his touch, and once again he lets his hand drop. "I thought that I smelled -" His throat feels as though it's closing over, but he has to know. "I smelled burning flesh."

"That was him," she says abruptly, still staring down at her wrists. “I mean,” she fumbles over the words, her voice quavering, “I did that. I burned him with a hot iron.” She looks sick with disbelief, as though she can’t accept what she’s just said, what she’s just had to do.

It’s a feeling he remembers all too well from Fox River, but now isn’t the time to tell her he knows how she feels, as much as he wants to. “Sara-”

“Michael, I’m fine. Just keep driving.” She starts picking at the tape around her right wrist, sucking in her breath with a sharp hiss as she yanks it off obviously tender skin. She’s shivering, her pale skin almost translucent, and he can’t hold back the urge to do what little he can to make her more comfortable.

“There are dry clothes in the plastic bags on the backseat.”

She nods, but makes no move to retrieve the clothes. “His name is Kellerman.” Her voice is clipped and calm now, her expression stony as she stares down at the reddened skin of her wrists. “He took a call while I was there, answered with his name.” She looks up at him, her eyes distant. “Someone called him to see if he’d finished the job.”

His stomach rolls, but he forces himself to ask the obvious question. “Do you know who it was?”

She shakes her head, her gaze sliding away from his. “He didn’t say their name.” She shivers, and again he reaches out his hand to touch her shoulder.

“You’re cold.”

She blinks at him, then down at her wet clothes as though noticing them for the first time, and he recognizes the delayed reaction that comes with shock. “The water was cold,” she says in a hard, thin voice, almost to herself, and again his stomach turns over, his imagination filling in the blanks all too easily.

“I’ll stop as soon as I can,” he says carefully, the words feeling like sandpaper in his throat. “You need to change out of those clothes.” He checks the rearview mirror as he speaks, just as he’s done every other second since they left the Super 8 Motel, even though he knows he won’t be able to spot Kellerman’s dark blue sedan in the darkness.

Her jaw tightens. “I’m fine.”

Michael bites back a sigh. He’s often heard it said that doctors make the worst patients, and it would appear the accusation isn’t unfounded. Before he can argue the point, however, she turns to look at him, her gaze suddenly clear and direct. “How did you find me?”

He hesitates. He knew the question was coming, but that doesn’t make it any easier to answer. Once again, though, he simply tells her the truth. “I picked up a GPS tracker when I bought the scanner.”

Her gaze narrows. “You put something in my purse.”

He swallows hard. “Yes.” He reaches across the space between them to find her hand where it rests on her thigh, tangling his fingers with hers. Her skin is cold, almost clammy. “I did it in case something like this happened, Sara.” Her hand lies slack in his, very different to the warm clasp he remembers. “I didn’t have a chance to tell you what I’d done before you left our room.”

She nods, her eyes distant, but says none of the words of recrimination he’d been expecting. He would have preferred her to be angry than have to sit through the silence that is now stretching out between them, thin and brittle. Always so complicated, he thinks unhappily. In another life, this - they - could have been the simplest thing in the world.

After a moment, her fingers tighten around his briefly, then she slips her hand from his to wrap her arms around herself. They don’t speak, but he knows that this conversation, like so many conversations between them, is far from over.


~*~


He finds a busy gas station half an hour outside Oklahoma City, and parks the car as close to the restrooms as he dares. Twisting around in the passenger seat, Sara watches him as he rummages through the clothes, pulling off tags and shoving a clean set into one of the plastic bags. “Are your shoes wet?”

She frowns, as if she has to think about her answer. “No.”

His task completed, he returns to his seat behind the wheel and hands her a plastic bag. She peers into it with half-hearted interest, then her eyes widen. “You bought underwear?”

He’s suddenly very glad she’s looking at the bag rather than at him., then tells himself he’s being ridiculous. “Yes.”

She hesitates, looking as though she’s about to say something about his choices, but then she simply nods. “Thank you.”

“I’ll be right here,” he tells her as she opens the passenger side door. “If you’re not out in five minutes, I’m coming in after you,” he says lightly.

She looks at him, and he sees the first hint of a smile struggling to touch her mouth. It fades quickly, though, and her reply is flat and far too measured. “I’ll be fine.”

He watches her as she slips into the female restrooms, and wonders what she’d think if he didn’t bother waiting five minutes but insisted on standing guard outside her cubicle. He doubts she’d be impressed, but at least he wouldn’t have this dull churning in the pit of his stomach. In an effort to distract himself, he quickly retrieves the blanket from the trunk and spreads it over the back seat. He’ll probably have another fight on his hands trying to make her rest, but he’s a stubborn man.

Sara may have waved away both his concern and his gentle threat, but four and a half minutes later, she’s walking towards the car, dressed in a pair of long black exercise pants and a dark green zippered top. He watches her, and is more than a little ashamed how much he wants to congratulate himself on his shopping skills, because what had seemed cheap and shapeless and unisex on the hangers is both flattering and disconcertingly form-fitting on her.

He waits until she slides into the car beside him, then studies her face carefully, his hands poised on the steering wheel. “Do you want something to eat?”

She shakes her head. Her expression is composed, but her eyes are still glittering darkly with everything she hasn’t told him. “No, thank you.”

“Some water?” An odd expression flickers across her face at the question. He thinks of her wet clothes and wants to bite his tongue.

“I’m fine.”

He knows she hasn’t eaten anything since their ‘picnic’ the night before - God, has it only been a day? It feels like an eternity - but he doesn’t push her. She’ll eat something when she’s ready, the same way she’ll only tell him what happened to her in that hotel room when she’s ready. “Why don’t you try to get some sleep?”

She stares at him. “What about you?”

Adrenalin still spiking through his veins, he’s more awake than he’s ever been in his life. “I’m going to get us off this toll road and take a detour past Okmulgee.” He glances at his watch. “It will put us behind schedule, but it’s safer.” He looks at her. “Especially if our friend is still looking for us.”

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, her gaze dropping to her linked hands, at the long fingers twisting into the cuffs of her sleeves.

He frowns, confused. “Why are you sorry?”

“I shouldn’t have left our room.” She lifts a hand to swipe at a damp strand of hair clinging to her cheek. “I should have been more careful.”

Guilt shoots through him, sharp and fierce. “None of this is your fault, Sara.”

She shrugs listlessly. “We’re going to be late meeting your brother.”

He stares at her. “You think I give a damn about that?”

She lifts her gaze to his, the emptiness in her eyes like a slap to his face. “Don’t you?”

Disbelief briefly steals his voice, then it comes back in an incredulous rush. “Do you really think I’d weigh up trying to save your life against being a few hours late meeting Lincoln?” He’s suddenly furious with her, unable to believe that after what they’ve been through together, after what happened last night, that she could still be in any doubt as to how he feels about her.

They stare at each other for a long moment, then she closes her eyes, her eyelashes damp against her skin. “No, I don’t.”

His anger – if it ever was that – vanishes and, unable to stop himself, he reaches out to her, once again finding her hand in the darkness. “You need to rest.”

She sucks in a sharp breath, but she doesn’t pull her hand away. “What I need is to find whatever it was that my father was murdered for.” Her voice is small and hard and hits him like a punch to the gut.

“Proof.”

She looks at him, confused. “What?”

“I think your father was murdered because he had proof that Lincoln was innocent.” He winces inwardly, hating the unspoken connection between Frank Tancredi’s death and his brother’s innocence, but there’s no other way to say it. “Terrence Steadman is still alive, Sara.”

Her frown deepens. “What? How can you possibly know that for sure?”

It seems impossible that he hasn’t told her about Steadman, but they’ve been running from the moment he’d found her in that Chicago alleyway. She knows that Vee had been killed by the Company, he realises, but not why. “Veronica found Terrence Steadman alive and well in Montana.” The memory of the last time he’d seen Veronica burns brightly behind his eyes. He’d said goodbye to her so easily in the Visitation room that day, so sure he’d be seeing her again once this mess was all over.

You’re with Michael, she’d told Lincoln as she’d left them both that last time. You’ll be okay.

“It’s why they murdered her,” he finishes unsteadily, his voice cracking on the last word, and he suddenly wants very much to hit something, very hard.

Sara’s other hand is now over her mouth, her eyes swimming with horror, and he knows her own grief is chipping away at her tightly wound control. “My God, Michael.”

He squeezes her hand, gently brushing the pad of his thumb over the skin of her wrist. “I know you don’t want to run, Sara, but we can’t do this alone.”

She hesitates for a heartbeat, then nods, looking both overwhelmed and determined. “What do we do now?”

“We meet up with Lincoln, then we get in touch with the contact who will get us over the border and out of the country.” He knows he’s skimping on the details, but Sara is literally swaying where she sits, weariness etched on her pale face. Tomorrow, once she’s slept, once he’s had the chance to talk to Lincoln, he will tell her everything. “Once we’re out of the Company’s reach, then we can start unraveling all the threads, starting with your father’s message.”

“What about LJ? Lincoln isn’t going to want to leave him behind, surely?” she asks softly, and he realises there’s quite a few details he hasn’t shared with her. He quickly tells her about his last conversation with Lincoln, about LJ’s full pardon, and she frowns once more. “But that doesn’t make any sense.”

“Makes about as much sense as the rest of it,” he mutters, half to himself, then releases her hand to undo the catch on her seat belt. She looks down at his hand with wide eyes.

“What are you doing?”

“You’re going to try and get some sleep, remember?” He nods towards the back seat, doing his best not to think of waking up with her in his arms only hours earlier. “I don’t know about you, but I always find that lying down works better.”

There’s a mutinous set to her jaw he recognizes all too well. “But I -”

“Sara, please.” He holds her gaze with his, not letting her hide from him, and her rigid expression starts to crumple. No longer caring if she flinches at his touch, he slides across the front seat and puts his arm around her shoulders, pulling her close.

She stiffens in his embrace for a few seconds, then leans into him, her chin on his shoulder, her unsteady exhalation of breath whispering past his ear. He closes his eyes, concentrating on the steady thrum of her heartbeat against his, the warmth of her – alive and whole – in his arms. Her damp hair is cool against his neck, and he realises again how close he’d come to losing her.

All too soon, she pulls away, not quite meeting his eyes, and he feels the distance between them, sharp and raw. “I’ll try to get some sleep.”

It’s a dismissal, no matter how gently spoken, and he draws in a deep breath against the subtle panic that suddenly tightens his chest. He may be a stubborn man, but he’s also a patient one. “Good idea.”


~*~


He’s always liked driving at night, alone with his thoughts, watching the beam of his headlights as they hit the precise white lines on the road. Tonight, though, his thoughts are poor company, and the solitude of the highway is of no comfort. He sees Kellerman’s face behind the wheel of every car that comes into view, hears the unsteady rhythm of Sara’s breathing over the combined noise coming from the police scanner and the local radio station.

He listens carefully to the news, expecting to hear the same rehashed stories they seem to cover with every hourly bulletin - President Mills’ unexpected death, Caroline Reynolds’ falling numbers as she settles into her new role, the continued pursuit of the Fox River Eight – and he does, but this time he also hears the name Tancredi. His heart sinking, he listens intently as the newsreader covers the bare facts of Frank Tancredi’s death, then goes on to mention Sara.

“It’s been reported that authorities have not yet been able to contact the late Governor’s daughter, Doctor Sara Tancredi, former employee of Fox River Penitentiary. Doctor Tancredi is currently released on bail, awaiting charges of aiding and abetting. While the Chicago Police department declined to comment on numerous reports linking Sara Tancredi to Michael Scofield, alleged mastermind of the breakout and brother of the man charged with the murder of Terrence Steadman, they did release a statement that there are grave fears for her safety. In other news, we can expect no relief from increasing gas prices across the country- ”

Michael flips the volume button right down, then glances over his shoulder at the woman asleep in the back seat. She’s pulled the threadbare blanket up to her chin, her long legs curled up until they’re almost against her chest, as though she’s trying to hide from the world. He shakes his head, wondering how someone can appear so fragile and yet be one of the strongest people he’s ever met, and again the fierce urge to protect her, keep her safe, wells up inside him.

There are some things that can never be fixed, he knows that - he can’t bring back her father or undo the damage that’s been done to her reputation - but he would give almost anything for the chance to make everything else right.

Despite the long nights spent imagining too many things in the darkness of his cell, despite the fact that their one night together has only left him craving more to the point of distraction, this has never just been about sex. If he’s honest with himself, things would have been so much simpler if he’d just been taking advantage of a pretty face and a soft heart, but the connection between them is complicated and delicate and something he wants more than he could ever explain to her.

Or to himself, for that matter, he thinks wryly. When they were younger, Lincoln used to bitch about homework and how physics and chemistry were useless and pointless and all too hard, then blow it all off to hang out with Veronica. When he next sees his brother, Michael decides, he’s going to point out that Linc’s had it all wrong all these years. It’s women who are hard. Compared to navigating his feelings for Sara Tancredi, physics and chemistry are a proverbial walk in the park.

His passenger wakes up just after they’ve passed through Sayre, Oklahoma. It’s five in the morning – he’s made good time with the expected detour, much to his relief – and despite her protestations, she has slept right through the night. “Where are we?” she asks, her words muffled by a yawn. He tells her, and can’t help smiling when she shoots back a drowsy, “I have no idea where that is.”

Before he can offer to stop the car, she’s climbing into the front seat, her movements slightly awkward, and he hears her suck in her breath when she puts her weight on her right arm

“How are you feeling?”

“A little stiff.” She flashes him a quick glance. “Two nights in a row in the backseat of a car isn’t a good thing once you hit twenty.”

He quirks one eyebrow at her. She would have been in better shape if she’d spent both nights just sleeping, and they both know it. She holds his gaze for a few seconds, then looks away, a faint hint of colour staining her face. “Are we making a restroom stop soon?”

They stop in Amarillo, another anonymous gas station, another cheap and deep fried breakfast. Mindful of their dwindling cash, Michael tells her not to bother buying him a coffee, but she comes back with one of the largest takeaway containers of coffee he’s ever seen. “I thought we could share,” she says quietly, fussing almost nervously with packets of sugar and creamer, growing still only when he brushes the back of her hand with his fingertips.

“Thank you.”

He hadn’t asked her to buy the newspaper, but she does anyway, carefully averting her gaze from the front page as she hands it to him, and he knows she’s feeling the same sense of déjà vu. He doubts there could be anything as horrific in today’s edition, but he takes the paper and tucks it under his arm, out of her sight, then waves away the giant coffee. “After you.” That earns him a grateful smile, one that he’d happily go without coffee for the next year to see again, and she makes herself comfortable on the back seat, her legs dangling out the open car door.

Some breakfasts are meant to be savored. Some are meant to eaten as quickly as possible so that you can start to forget them. Standing beside the car, Michael wipes his greasy fingers on one of the paper napkins Sara had handed him, and promises himself that when this is all over, he is never going to have another breakfast that he has to force himself to forget. “What do you normally eat in the morning?” he hears himself ask.

Sara looks at him in surprise. “Uh, toast. Coffee. Sometimes a banana. Why?”

He could live with that, he thinks. “Just wondering,” he says lightly as he pulls the keys out of his pocket.

Before he has the chance to reach for it, she bundles up their breakfast rubbish and shoves it into the nearby trash can. “I’ll drive.”

He hesitates. “Are you sure?”

She shakes her head irritably as she plucks the car keys from his hand. “Michael, you’ve been awake for twenty-four hours. Either I drive, or we risk wrapping ourselves around a telegraph pole.”

It’s the same logic she used to convince Lincoln they needed to stop that first night, and it carries just as much weight this morning. He’d like to argue, but he can’t deny that his eyes feel as though they’ve been rubbed with sandpaper. “Thanks.”

She shrugs, and he wonders how long she’s going to be able to hold it all in. She’s someone who’s used to sharing her thoughts and feelings, a regular attendee at various group sessions over the years. He can only hazard several guesses at why she’s keeping everything bottled up inside her now, and none of them put his mind at ease.

As he walks in front of the car, his cell phone starts to ring. It’s Lincoln and, as usual, his brother wastes no time in getting straight to the point. “I've got LJ.”

Michael blinks. “How?”

“Paid a guy twenty bucks to pick a fight with him, rough him up just enough to get him into the ER at the local hospital.” Lincoln sounds decidedly smug. “I snatched him from there.”

Christ almighty. There are several different answers Michael is tempted to give, but in the end he settles on, “Are you both okay?”

“LJ’s still a little shaken up, but we’re good.” His brother’s voice suddenly grows louder, as though he’s pressed the receiver closer to his lips. “Where are you?”

“We’re just passing through Amarillo.” Before Linc can ask why the hell they’re not already over the state line into New Mexico, he adds, “We ran into some trouble.”

He can picture his brother’s frown clearly. “What kind of trouble?”

Sara is already behind the wheel, the engine running. He turns his back, taking a few steps away from the car. “The worst kind. I should have let you do a bit more damage with the van in Chicago when we picked up Sara.” He glances over his shoulder at Sara, but she’s gazing out her window at the early morning sky, her head tilted backward. “That bastard you ran down? He snatched her right from under my nose in Springfield.”

“You’re fucking kidding me.”

“I wish I was. He had her in a hotel room for almost an hour. She hasn’t come right out and said it, but I’m guessing he put her through all kinds of hell.” Just saying the words makes him want to be sick, but he forces himself to go on. “Her father left a voicemail message on her phone. He’s left something for her to find, something that he said would prove her right, and he’s left it somewhere only she would know.” He takes a deep breath. “They obviously thought she knew exactly where her father meant.”

“And does she?”

“No.”

“What do you think he found? Her father, I mean.”

“I think Frank Tancredi stumbled onto something about Steadman. Something that made him fly back to Chicago in a big hurry, but not before he’d hidden something for his daughter to find.”

“This changes things.”

Understatement of the century. “I know.”

“When does your contact expect to hear from you?”

Michael takes a deep breath, thinking of everything that still needs to be put into motion. “Tomorrow.”

“It’s a waste of time for you to come here, only to double back.”

“I agree.”

“What do you suggest?”

“That we meet you in New Mexico.”

“Gila?”

“Yes. It will give us a chance to regroup before we meet up with my contact. We need the cash and the equipment from the house.” He watches Sara as she studies the dashboard of the Rambler, running her hands over the steering wheel as if to familiarize herself with it once more. “How’s your car holding up?”

“Still a piece of crap, but it’ll get us there.”

Michael smiles into the phone. “Wait until you see mine.”

A moment later, Sara looks at him as he climbs into the passenger seat. “Everything okay?”

“Yes. Linc’s got LJ with him.” He waits for her to ask him to explain further, but she simply nods and puts the car into gear. “Change of plan,” he adds hastily as he reaches for his seat belt. “We’re going to head for Gila, New Mexico, to the other safe house I told you about.”

She flicks him a puzzled glance. “Why?”

“It’s stocked with some food and some cash.” He gives her a small smile. “And a few other things I tucked away.”

“Boy Scout,” she mutters under her breath, squinting into the morning sun as she checks for oncoming traffic.

His smile becomes a grin. If she’s grumbling about him, she must be feeling better. “I’m afraid so.”


~*~


Gila is dry and dusty, but the sprawling white house set well back from the road looks exactly as it did when he last saw it, six weeks before he walked into a Chicago bank and pulled out a gun. As he pulls the single key from his back pocket and opens the front door for Sara, she gives him an odd look. “Just how many of these places do you have?”

“Two.” He smiles at her as he puts a gentle hand on the small of her back to usher her inside, then locks the door behind them. “And now you’ve seen them both.”

She walks slowly into the main room of the house, the heels of her flat shoes clicking on the tiles. “I like this one better,” she finally says, her gaze sweeping the exposed wooden beams and overstuffed couches.

“More rustic?”

She shrugs, and he feels the easy moment between them slide away. “Maybe.”

He drops his duffle bag onto the floor, feeling as though he could flop onto one of those overstuffed couches and sleep for a week. He hadn't managed to do more than doze on and off during the eight hour drive from Amarillo, not least because of the need to give Sara directions. “Well, make yourself at home.” He sounds like a goddamned junior camp counselor rather than the man who slept with her only yesterday, but he’s not going to push her. If she wants to take things down a few notches, then that’s that way it will be.

She nods, carefully avoiding his eyes, her hands tightly clutching the strap of the handbag slung over her shoulder. She looks more lost than he’s ever seen her, and his heart aches for her.

“Linc and LJ will be here soon. The house will be filled with noisy males before you know it.” That grabs her attention, her gaze snapping up to meet his. He nods towards the hallway leading to the rest of the house. “You’d better take advantage of the quiet ambience while you can.”

“I think-” she breaks off, takes a shaky breath, then starts again. “I think I need a cup of tea,” she says, her eyes glittering with the tears she’s obviously determined not to let him see.

“The kitchen is the first door on the right. Check the pantry beside the sink, you’ll find everything you need,” he says softly. She nods, and turns on her heel, walking away from him without another word. He watches her go, curling his fingers around the key in his palm until the sharp edges press hard into his skin.

Damn it.


~*~


“Michael?”

The battered paperback slides to the floor as Michael rises to his feet, his pulse suddenly racing. He’s heard his brother’s voice calling outside the house without hearing his car approaching. Which doesn’t make much sense, seeing as the second-hand Dodge that he and Linc had pulled in a midnight favour to obtain two days ago was almost as old as the Rambler.

He checks the peephole in the front door, smiling to himself when he sees that Linc has positioned himself right in the door to allow Michael a clear view. Opening the door, he stops in his tracks and stares. Both men – because his nephew can no longer be considered a child, not after all he’s been through - are dusty and bedraggled, but it’s not that. It’s been so long since he’s seen them together, standing side by side, that it takes him aback for a moment. “You both look like hell,” he tells them, and is rewarded with matching glares of annoyance.

“We can’t all be fashion plates,” his brother mutters, but then there’s no distance between them and Linc’s hugging him fiercely. “It’s good to see you.”

“You too.” Michael turns to LJ, not caring if his nephew thinks he’s too old to be hugged. “Glad you ditched the yellow jumpsuit.”

LJ looks at him with newly wary eyes - old eyes, Michael thinks - then LJ grins, some of the world-weariness falling away. “Yeah, it wasn’t really my style.”

Linc stares over Michael’s shoulder at the house behind him. “Where’s Sara?”

“She’s inside, resting.” She’s actually holed up in one of the back bedrooms, pretending to read a book, just as he’d been pretending to read one in the main room, but there’s no need for him to share that with Linc. “Why?”

Lincoln nods, but makes no move to walk towards the front door. “I’ve got someone else with me.”

Michael stares at him, putting together the absence of the Dodge and the odd mix of hesitation and excitement in his brother’s face. “Who?”

His brother turns, calling out to an unseen person out of Michael’s sight. “Dad?”

That one word sends a blunt shockwave hammering through him. He stares at the tall, gray-haired man who appears around the corner of the house, once again feeling as though the ground is shifting beneath his feet. He stares and he knows he can’t be seeing what he’s seeing, but he is and the panic bubbles up inside him, dark and thick and clawing at every little wall he’s ever built around himself.

“I know this man,” he tells his brother in a voice choked with fear, and Lincoln’s smile vanishes. Michael takes a step backward, his whole body rippling with indecision - flight or fight - as the walls crumble into dust and the darkness of the past comes rushing back to haunt them all.



~*~

~*~



Lincoln nods, but makes no move to walk towards the front door. “I’ve got someone else with me.”

Michael stares at him, putting together the complete lack of the Dodge parked outside the house and the odd mix of hesitation and excitement in his brother’s face. “Who?”

His brother turns, calling out to someone out of Michael’s sight. “Dad?”

That one word sends a blunt shockwave hammering through him. He stares at the tall, gray-haired man who appears around the corner of the house, once again feeling as though the ground is shifting beneath his feet. He stares and he knows he can’t be seeing what he’s seeing, but he is and the panic bubbles up inside him, dark and thick and clawing at every little wall he’s ever built around himself.

“I know this man,” he tells his brother in a voice choked with fear, and Lincoln’s smile vanishes. Michael takes a step backward, his whole body rippling with indecision - flight or fight - as the walls crumble into dust and the darkness of the past comes rushing back to haunt them all.

Lincoln is staring at him. Everyone is staring at him.

His eyes blur, then he turns away from Lincoln’s frown to stare at the face that had once haunted his dreams every night. “We’ve met before,” he hears himself say. His chest feels hot and tight, the dust in the air seeming to choke him with every breath he drags in.

The man gives him a tiny nod, and Michael feels his stomach twist into a dozen little knots.

Dad.

Lincoln had called him Dad.

No.

No, no, no.

This isn’t real. This isn’t right.

Closing his eyes, he takes another step backward, but it doesn’t work. When he opens his eyes, the gray-haired man is still there, still looking at him as though he has every right to do so. Michael looks at Lincoln, desperately trying to find the right words to explain the unexplainable, but everything feels disconnected; his words, his thoughts, his fear.

The man - it can’t be his father, it can’t, he thinks desperately - takes a step forward, holding up his hands. “Go easy, son.”

Michael flinches, the word son hitting him like a punch to the gut, then takes another step backward. “Stay away from me.”

He’s vaguely aware of Lincoln moving to stand in front of the older man, as if wanting to shield Michael from the sight of him. “What the hell's going on?”

Dust and tears burn his eyes as he shakes his head helplessly, his words still trapped under the weight of fear and anger. “I know him.”

Lincoln stares at him, obviously just as helpless to understand as Michael is to explain. “What do you mean you know him? That’s impossible.”

The years seem to fall away as he struggles to explain what’s wrong, to make Lincoln understand, but all he can do is repeat the accusations of the terrified ten year-old boy he once was. “I know him. I know this man!”

His expression darkening, Lincoln turns and takes LJ by the elbow – oh, God, LJ is still there, watching and listening in avid confusion - then propels him towards the front door. “Get inside the house, LJ.”

His nephew scowls. “Why?”

“Now, LJ.”

LJ stalks past, heading towards the house, and Michael wants nothing more than to escape with him. He knows he’s standing in the New Mexico heat, but he’s back in the darkness of the basement, the smell of old paint and insecticide and rotting mop heads filling his nose.

“What the hell's goin' on, Dad?” he hears his brother ask, and he wants to tell him, tell him that everything suddenly makes terrible, horrible sense. He sucks in a deep breath, then another, trying to get enough air into his lungs to push down the wave of nausea burning in his stomach.

“After Mom died - you were in Juvie - they put me with this-” He breaks off, fumbling for the words. It’s been so long since he let himself remember, and now he knows why. “This foster father down on Pershing Avenue. He punished me, locked me up.”

Lincoln’s gaze narrows, his whole body growing still, but he says nothing. “If you leave someone alone in the dark for that long,” Michael whispers, his eyes flicking towards the gray-haired man’s impassive face, “their eyes start to adjust.” The heat of the afternoon sun is baking his skin through his shirt, but it doesn’t chase away the shiver that ripples down his spine.

“You start to see things, no matter how small, because if they exist, they can help you.” He can still feel that rusty nail against his fingertips, the sharp press of metal against his palm, the feeling of triumph when he’d made it work. “Help you do the only thing you want to do when you’re alone in the dark - get out.” He closes his eyes and the heat and the dust fades away and he’s back there, back in the darkness, his fingertips scratched and splintered.

Escaping that small prison had never been enough. Because there had always been fists and feet and ugly words waiting for him, waiting to send him straight back into his own little hell.

Just like so many other places they’d sent him.

Just like Fox River.

He turns on his heel and starts to walk back to the house, knowing he needs to get away from this conversation right now. He hears Lincoln yelling his name, but he doesn’t care. He can’t do this. He can’t.

But Linc is behind him now, grabbing his arm. “He did this to you?” His brother’s grip tightens. “Did he do this to you?”

He shakes off Lincoln’s arm just as their father reaches them, his hands still held up in supplication. “Michael, please-”

“You killed him.” Michael turns, feeling gravel and sand shift beneath the hard soles of his shoes, his head filling with the memory of dead, staring eyes and thick red blood. “How could you do that to another human being, with your own hands?” He’s crying now and he hates it but he can’t stop. The walls have crumbled and there’s nothing left to cling to, nowhere to hide from his own conscience. His own guilt. I saw a man bleed out once, and I was glad, because he deserved it.

“It's going to be alright.” His father is making shushing sounds under his breath. Trying to comfort his crying child, Michael thinks hazily, and feels anger slice through the remnants of his fear.

“Six months. Six months I was in that place.” Michael dashes at his eyes with the back of his hand, then fixes his father with a hard stare. “Where were you? How long did you know?” Somewhere deep inside the man he’s become, he knows he’s blaming his father for both abandoning and rescuing him, that he’s being unfair, but the child he once was isn’t so forgiving.

“I found you as soon as I could,” his father protests. “The state kept moving you around.”

Not good enough. “And then you went away again, right?”

“You don’t think it killed me?” the older man shoots back, an echo of Michael’s anger in his voice. “To leave you like that, to leave you in the first place?” He shakes his head. “Since the beginning, I was the problem, since day one. Your lives are what they are because of me.”

Michael stares at him. “Yes, Linc told me about the Company, apparently you were some kind of analyst.” He spits the last word out, hearing the venom in his own voice. “That’s the job you chose over your family.”

“I thought I was doing the right thing.”

This is such bullshit, Michael thinks but doesn’t say, once again turning towards the house. His father – God, even in his head that sounds all wrong – shouts after him. “I thought I was protecting you!”

“From what, Dad?” Furious, he spins on his heel. “From who?!”

“The Company had enemies, I was important to the Company!” Their father throws a look of appeal at Lincoln, but his oldest son says nothing. “I became a target, the easiest way for them to get to me would be to get to you! I left as soon as I realised how corrupt it all was, how they were buying the government -”

Frustration and anger well up inside him, spilling out and over and he’s suddenly shouting, his hands clenched into fists at his side. “You could have come back at any time!”

“No, I couldn't!” Michael opens his mouth to retort but his father doesn’t give him the chance. “Michael, turning on the Company would have put all of us at even greater risk. I had to stay away.”

They stare at each other for a long moment. There’s a lump in Michael’s throat the size of a fist. “We're your sons,” he finally whispers, unable to stop his voice from breaking.

His father looks stricken. “And you still are, Michael.” He looks at them both in turn, his expression so sincere that Michael almost believes him. “We can fix this. I came back so that we could fix this.”

Michael stares at him, his heart twisting as he realises why the words of promise sound so familiar. There’s a plan to make all this right.

Anger sweeps through him - at his father, at Lincoln, at himself - and he shakes his head. “This can never be fixed,” he mutters bitterly, suddenly understanding Sara’s reluctance to forgive him all too well. He turns away, once more intent on escaping both the conversation and a past he’d rather forget. His father’s next words, however, have him stopping in his tracks.

“There’s a tape. It gives us everything we need.”

Michael turns to look at his brother and his father in turn. Linc says nothing, but Michael sees the unspoken plea in his eyes. “Linc will be set free if we find it,” their father adds, and Michael feels his resolve to escape weaken.

Linc blows out a loud breath, then gives Michael a wry half-smile. “You’re not going to believe who he thinks has it.”

“Who?” Even as he asks, he realises he already knows the answer.

“Sara.”

Knowing the answer doesn’t make it any easier to hear it, to know for certain that Sara is now as deeply embroiled in this thing as the rest of them. Michael swallows hard, but the lump in his throat won’t budge. “Her father left her a message.”

His own father nods. “We know. And so does the Company.”

“I know.” Michael shakes his head. “But she doesn’t know what the message means.”

“She’ll have to try harder to work it out.”

Michael glares at his father. “You’re not dragging her into this mess.”

His father gives him a look that is both sympathetic and exasperated. “Son, she’s already in it, whether you like it or not.”

“Perhaps we should take this inside?” asks a female voice that definitely does not belong to Sara. Michael blinks, staring at the tall blonde who has suddenly appeared as if from thin air to stand beside his father. “I think we’d be more secure inside the house,” she adds with a polite smile.

Michael takes in the sleek ponytail, the tailored black pantsuit, the less than subtle armed bodyguard vibe. He glances at Lincoln, who looks vaguely sheepish, but it’s his father who answers. “This is Jane Barrow. She works with me.”

“I’m pleased to finally meet you, Michael,” she says with another smile, as if they’re in the middle of a goddamned garden party. “I’ve heard a lot about you from your father.”

“Is that so?” He feels his gaze narrow, and it’s not just against the glare of the sun. He wonders how much his mother knew about the truth behind her husband’s disappearance. “And how long have you known my father?”

“Michael,” his father protests, but Jane just regards him steadily, refusing to rise to his clumsily phrased bait.

“Quite a while.”

“Let’s get inside,” his brother interrupts with obvious impatience, and Michael readily agrees. If he has to deal with this traveling circus, he’d rather do it in the cool of the house.

Without saying another word, he turns and walks the last few yards of the gravel path to the front door, but not without catching the veiled look his brother shoots at Jane Barrow. Michael frowns, then dismisses it. Whatever’s going on there, he doesn’t want to know.

LJ and Sara are talking softly in the main room. He hears LJ say, “I was there that night, you know. They made me hide in the back room when you knocked on the door.” Whatever reply Sara is about to make is lost as they both catch sight of Michael. Sara’s eyes lock with his, and he sees the curiosity in her face. He wonders how much she heard (he doesn’t put it past LJ to have to eavesdropped for all he was worth) and he wants very much to take her by the arm, pull her aside and explain everything. He can’t, of course, not with the unexpected entourage right on his heels. Sara looks behind him, her eyes widening at the sight of his father and Jane Barrow, but she says nothing.

“Hey, Doc,” Lincoln says in an easy voice, and she gives him a grateful look.

“Hello. How’s the leg?”

He shoots her a grin. “Still working.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” She looks at Michael expectantly, and he reluctantly indicates his father with a sweep of his hand. “Sara, this is my father, Aldo Burrows.” On the scale of things he thought he’d never have to say, that sentence rates pretty high.

The older man steps towards her as if to shake her hand. Sara folds her arms across her chest, and he merely gives her a polite smile. “I was sorry to hear about your father, Doctor Tancredi.”

Her expression becomes blank and smooth. “Thank you.” She glances at LJ, still hovering beside her, his gaze darting uncertainly from one member of his family to the next. “I’ll take a quick look at those stitches for you now, if you want?” she asks him gently. “I think the kitchen has the best light.”

Despite everything going on around them, Michael wants to smile. He knows she’s trying to escape – he doesn’t blame her – but at the same time she isn’t going to pass up an opportunity to ply her instinctive trade.

“Sure.” With one last glance at his father, LJ wanders off towards the kitchen, while Sara beats a hasty retreat down the long hallway, presumably heading towards the bathroom to wash her hands.

He watches her leave the room, then looks at Lincoln. “Give me a minute, will you?”

His father stares at him. “We’ve got a lot of ground to cover, Michael, and not a lot of time in which to do it.”

“You’ve waited over thirty years to talk to me,” Michael says flatly as he turns to follow Sara. “I’m sure you can wait another ten minutes.”

She’s in the bathroom, her sleeves pushed up to her elbows, slowly drying her hands as she unhappily studies herself in the small mirror.

“You okay?”

She jumps at the sound of his voice, looking as guilty as though he’d caught her going through his wallet. “I was about to ask you the same thing,” she says as she rummages through the first aid kit that she’d obviously snagged out of his duffle bag while he was outside. “It’s not every day your father comes back from the dead.”

He understands the bitterness in her voice, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t sting. “Sara-”

She looks up at him, her expression once again smooth and distant, then down at the medical paraphernalia in her hands. “I want to take a look at LJ’s stitches. ER doctors don’t usually have a whole lot of time to spare and I’d hate for him to have unnecessary scarring.” She closes the first aid kit with a snap. “And you need to talk to your brother and father.”

“I’m afraid that you need to talk to them as well,” he says softly. “They need to talk to you about the message your father left on your cell phone.”

She presses her lips together into a thin, tight line, then shakes her head. “I don’t know what it means, Michael.” She looks at him with faint accusation. “You know that.”

He wraps his hand around her elbow, holding her still when she would have walked out of the room. “Please, Sara.” He’s not above begging for her help. He never has been. “It could prove Lincoln’s innocence.” He lets his thumb brush over the soft skin in the crook of her elbow, but it’s more for his own benefit than any attempt to sway her. He knows she’s barely keeping her head above water at the moment, and trying to force a reconnection between them isn’t what she needs right now. But it’s proving more difficult than he would ever have imagined, and even the most fleeting of contact is better than nothing. “Maybe even save all our lives.”

She turns her face away, but not before he sees her eyes glittering with tears. “Damn it,” she mutters under her breath, then draws in a sharp breath. “Tell them I’ll be there in a minute.”


~*~


Michael watches Sara as she drops gracefully into the seat across from him, then turns to his father. “How did you meet up with Lincoln?”

“We were keeping tabs on LJ’s release this morning. After Lincoln pulled off that outrageous snatch and grab, we followed them.” There’s no mistaking the pride in his father’s voice, and Michael feels an unsettling flicker of jealousy. “He and LJ were made by a couple of badges from Kingman, so we took them out, and brought the boys the rest of the way here.”

Michael glances at Sara, but she’s watching Jane, who has positioned herself across the room, keeping watch at the window with the best view of the only road leading to the house. The women’s introduction had been brief but cordial, and he wonders suddenly if Sara is relieved to have another female around. Or maybe, he thinks, she’s also picked up on the odd vibe between Jane and his brother.

“So, what’s our next move?” Lincoln takes a long swig from the can of beer he’d unearthed from the back of the old refrigerator, looking from Michael to their father. LJ is asleep in one of the smaller bedrooms, the events of the last few days having finally caught up with him.

Their father looks at Sara. “The message your father left on your phone,” he says with a gentleness that belies the determined gleam in his eyes. “He deliberately left a message only you would understand.

She frowns, shaking her head. “But I don’t know what he meant.” Michael can hear the frustration in her voice.

“I think you do – you just haven’t realised it yet.” Michael’s father leans forward, his elbows on the table. “He said the place that your mother loved best.”

Sara regards him calmly enough, but her words are stretched too thin, too brittle. “My mother loved a lot of places, but I doubt my father hid the proof of Lincoln’s innocence in a bar.”

Michael gazes at her, bits and pieces of conversation floating through his memory, then one particular thought comes into sharp focus. “You told me that you and your parents had one last family holiday together,” he says quietly, and all eyes turn to him. “Where was that?”

She closes her eyes, and he knows he’s just pushed her right back into the grief she’s trying so hard to forget. “Cape Cod.”

“That can’t be it,” Michael’s father mutters. “He flew straight home from Washington. No detours.”

Sara is looking down at her lap, and Michael knows without having to actually see that she’s twisting her hands together nervously, long fingers tugging at the sleeves of her shirt. This can’t be easy for her, coming so soon after her experience with a very different kind of questioning. He slides his foot across the floor underneath the table towards her until his boot is pressing against hers. When her eyes widen slightly, he gives her a tiny smile. It’s going to be okay, he tells her silently, and a few seconds later she leans back in her chair, the stiff set of her shoulders relaxing just a little.

His father frowns. “Anywhere in particular in Washington that your parents visited on a regular basis?”

“My father was the Governor of Illinois,” she tells him. “Trips to Washington DC were all too frequent.” Suddenly her face changes, realization flickering across her features like ripples across a pond. “Oh, my God.”

Michael can feel his brother and father looking at him, obviously waiting for him to ask the question. “What is it?”

“There’s a teahouse on 8th Street. We first went there when I was ten.” She keeps her eyes on Michael as she speaks, as if he’s the only steady point in the room. “My mother loved it so much that she threw out all our china when we got home and replaced it with the same pattern they used in the teahouse.”

“And?”

“And that’s it. Until I was twelve, every time we had to go to Washington with my father, that’s where my mother and I went.” Putting her elbows on the table, she puts her head in her hands, as though just remembering is too much effort.

Michael’s father rises to his feet, pulling a cell phone out of his pocket as he leaves the table and walks toward the window where Jane is keeping watch. “What’s it called?”

Sara tells him, then adds, “They won’t be open now, though. They close at six in the evening.”

“Just doing some groundwork.”

Michael listens as his father calls information, but he doesn’t take his eyes off Sara. He can see the tension in every line of her body, the rigid set of her jaw, the exhaustion in her eyes. She needs to rest, and he has every intention of personally ensuring that she does.

LJ shuffles into the room, his bare feet scuffing on the tiles, his hair testament to a restless sleep. “Did you tell Uncle Mike about my photograph?” he asks the room at large as he slips into the empty chair beside his father.

Lincoln’s face tightens. “Not yet.”

Michael looks at his brother. “What photograph?”

“The day LJ’s mother was killed,” Lincoln mutters, putting a hand on his son’s shoulder. “He managed to take a photo with his cell phone.”

“Before I ran like hell,” LJ cuts in, the faintest hint of triumph in his tone. “I emailed it to myself, but with everything that’s happened-” He looks across the room at Jane. “Jane helped me access my account through this amazing router system so no one would be able to trace-”

“LJ, the photo?” Michael prompts gently, and his nephew gives him a sheepish look.

“Sorry.” He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a piece of paper folded into four. He lays it flat on the table, his grandfather now looking over his shoulder. Michael hears Sara suck in a sharp breath.

“Where was this taken?”

“At my house,” LJ says quietly. “That’s the guy who killed my step-dad.”

Sara’s face is white. “I know him.”

Michael shoves back his chair, moving quickly around to the other side of the table to stand beside her, gently touching her shoulder. She’s trembling, her eyes wide as she stares at the blurred 8 x 10 photograph.

“His name is Kellerman,” she says, her voice thin with loathing, and Michael knows that despite his desperate efforts, he had been too late to save her.


~*~


Michael drops onto the couch beside his brother, and Lincoln nods in the vague direction of the bedrooms. “How’s she doing?”

He sighs. “Not too good.” Sara had been quick to downplay her initial reaction to Kellerman’s photograph, but it hadn’t been enough to wipe her fearful expression from Michael’s mind.

Lincoln leans back into the couch, his hands linked behind his head. “Has she told you what happened?”

“Not yet.”

“PTSD,” is Jane’s succinct contribution from across the room. She and their father are still camped out at the long table in the corner, holding a muted conversation while pouring over a laptop. Michael looks at her, faintly annoyed, but her steady gaze doesn’t waver. “Paul Kellerman is a well-trained soldier for the Company. Even without knowing the details, I suspect she has every reason to be skating close to the edge.”

Michael thinks of Sara’s faintly guilty expression when he’d walked into the bathroom earlier, when she’d been searching through the first aid kit.

When I’m around you, I’m not careful.

I’m an addict, Michael. I always will be.

His heart suddenly racing, he gets to his feet. “Excuse me for a moment, would you?”

Sara isn’t in the main bedroom where she’d escaped to when the rest of them had dined on canned stew and soup. Neither is she in any of the other bedrooms, unless she’s decided to crawl into the bunk bed across from where LJ is currently snoring. He walks down the long hallway, his heart racing even more when he sees that the bathroom door is shut.

He knocks softly. “Sara?”

There’s no answer, and his stomach lurches coldly. He knocks again, a little harder this time. “Sara?”

Again, there’s no answer, and he doesn’t stop to let himself consider the issue of privacy. He opens the unlocked door, his whole body sagging in relief when he sees her. She’s sitting at the bottom of the shower stall, still dressed in the dark green cotton bra and underpants he’d bought for her, her knees up to her chest, her forehead on her knees. Her normally pale skin is flushed with the heat of the water, her hair soaking wet and scraped back from her face.

“Sara.”

Without looking at him, she lifts one hand, waving him away. He ignores her. Locking the door behind him, he strips down to his boxers and undershirt, then pulls open the shower screen.

It’s only when he puts one foot inside the shower that she finally looks up at him. “What are you doing?”

He adjusts the faucets until the deluge of water becomes a fine, warm spray, then pulls the shower screen shut behind him. “Joining you.”

She stares at him through eyelashes heavy with water. “Why?”

He sits down beside her, his back against the tiles, drawing up his legs until his knees are on a level with hers. He rests his elbows on his knees, careful to keep his eyes straight ahead. For all the gravity of the situation, he’s only human. Bad enough that her smooth, bare thigh is now pressed against his, but it would be all too easy to let himself fill in the mental blanks of their one night together, too easy to be distracted by long, shapely legs, delicate curves and wet skin the colour of buttermilk. “I think the question is, what are you doing in here?”

She shrugs. “I was cold.” The tip of her nose is pink, her eyes red-rimmed. “Can’t seem to get warm.” He glances quickly at her arms and legs, dismayed to see she’s not simply trying to make excuses. Despite the heat of the water, her pale skin is covered with goosebumps.

And bruises.

Fingertip-sized purple smudges dot the pale skin of her upper arms, but it’s the bruises on her throat that make his stomach turn. He can imagine Kellerman’s hand pushing down on the back of her neck all too easily. A wave of pure hatred washes over him and he swallows hard, remembering the words he’d flung at his father - how could you do that to another human being? - realising he’d known the answer all along. His father had killed the man who had hurt someone he loved. It was as simple as that.

The warm water is beating gently down on both of them now, his t-shirt and boxers already sticking to his skin. It’s tempting to just sit here with her and pretend the world outside that locked door doesn’t exist, but that’s not what either of them needs. “Want to talk about it?”

She shakes her head almost violently. “No.”

“You need to tell someone, Sara.”

“Why?” she snaps at him. “So you go over all the things you could have done to stop it again and again in your head until it’s the only thing you can think about?” She doesn't say just like I do, but he hears it anyway.

He’s made her angry, and that’s a good thing, because making her angry is a thousand times better than letting her wallow in despair. “Yes.”

“Why?”

He reaches for her hand, threading his fingers through hers. “So you don’t have to do it alone.”

Her eyes fill with tears as she squeezes his hand so tightly he thinks his knuckle joints might pop, but again she shakes her head. “I can’t.”

Shifting his back until his shoulder is pressed against hers, he wriggles the three remaining toes on his left foot until the movement catches her attention, then tells her softly, “John Abruzzi had my toes cut off because I wouldn’t tell him the location of the witness who was due to testify against him.”

He keeps looking at his toes – he wonders if he will ever get used to the sight of them - and out of the corner of his eye, he sees her staring at him. “Why on earth did he think you knew that?”

“Because I told him I did,” he says lightly, turning his head to look at her.

She sniffs loudly, then frowns. “Why?”

“Because I did know the location,” he replies, idly studying the intriguing contrast between their bare feet. “Before I went into Fox River, I did my homework on everyone I knew I’d need to help me get Lincoln out. I needed Abruzzi to get us a plane, and the key to Abruzzi was a man named Fibonacci.”

She considers this for a moment, her gaze once again drifting down to his foot. “What was the key to me?”

He hesitates, but only briefly. She’d once asked him to lay his cards on the table. If nothing else, he owes her this conversation. It seems almost fitting that they’re having it while sitting together at the bottom of a shower stall in New Mexico. Nothing they’ve ever done has been conventional. “You opposed the death penalty. Everything I’d ever read about you told me that you were someone who believed in doing what was right, not what was convenient or easy.”

She stares down at their entwined hands, her expression unreadable, and he finds himself holding his breath. “Anything else?” she finally asks in a small voice.

Tired of blinking water out of his eyes, he reaches above his head to turn off the taps one at a time, then wipes one hand across his wet face. “Everything was just theory until I stepped inside those gates, Sara, and that included you.” He looks at her, knowing that even if she doesn’t believe what he’s about to say, they both need to hear it. “Once theory became practice, everything changed.”

He closes his eyes, remembering the first time he’d seen her in the flesh, as though someone had reached into his chest and squeezed his heart very tightly. “So many things went wrong. So many bad things happened to me in there, things I never thought I’d be able to tell anyone else.” He opens his eyes to find her watching him. “But I’ll tell you everything you want to know, Sara.” He lifts their entangled hands to his mouth, brushing her knuckles with his lips. Her skin is damp and cool. “Because I trust you with everything I have.”

She stares at him, and it’s the first time she’s looked at him – really looked at him – since they’d learned of her father’s death. Her face softens, her eyes filling with tears. After what feels like an eternity, she bows her head, and he hears her breathe out a shaky sigh.

“I was so angry - with you, with myself. Even with my father.” He tilts his head towards hers, straining to hear her. “I wasn’t thinking clearly. One minute I was alone at the vending machine, the next he was there, pointing a gun in my face and saying it was nice to see me again.”

He slides his arm around her shoulders, pulling her closer. Hooking one arm around his upraised knee, she leans into him, her words hesitant and fumbling. “I don’t want to tell you the rest.”

“Why not?”

“Because then I’d have to think about it, and I don’t want to do that.”

They’re the same words she’d used two nights ago, lying in his arms, and something inside him twinges uneasily. He smoothes his hand over the curve of her head, threading his fingers through her damp hair. “Tell me everything, just this once, and we won’t ever have to talk about it again.”

She takes another deep breath, then she tells him everything. How Kellerman had taped her wrists and gagged her and put her in the trunk of his car. How he’d wisecracked about their NA meetings. How he was sorry he was having to do what he was doing. How he’d told her she was a stupid little girl for throwing away her life for a pair of cons who didn’t give a damn about her.

Michael listens, feeling increasingly sick to his stomach. When she gives him a teary smile and says, “Obviously he had no idea I’d once been on the college swim team and was very good at holding my breath,” he wants to put his fist through the glass shower door. When she tells him about the iron, he wants to get into the car and drive until he finds Paul Kellerman so he can break him in two.

In a halting voice, she tells him how someone else had knocked on the door only a few moments before he’d arrived - the manager, she thinks - and how Kellerman had simply left her to die alone. How she’d managed to pull out the bath plug – Christ, he can’t believe he’s hearing this – and tear the duct tape binding her wrists. She tells him about finding the hot iron and waiting for Kellerman to return, then pressing it so hard against his chest that she imagined she could feel his flesh melting away beneath it.

Then she’s finally crying out loud, silent heaving sobs that shake her whole body, her beautiful face twisting with grief and anger. He pulls her into his arms, and she buries her face in the crook of his neck, hiccuping as she struggles to speak. “When I pulled open the door and you were there,” she chokes out, “I thought I was seeing things.” Her hands are on his chest now, fingers curling into his wet undershirt. “That I’d wanted you to be there so much that I’d finally lost my mind.”

He rubs his hand gently up and down the length of her spine, over and over again, trying not to think of the fact that she’s wearing next to nothing and her skin is smooth and cool against the heat of his palm, trying not to dwell on what kind of man has such thoughts at a time like this. “I’m so sorry,” he finally whispers, touching his lips to her damp temple. “So sorry I wasn’t able to get there in time.”

She lifts her head to stare at him in confusion, her eyes glassy with tears. “But you did.”

He shakes his head, then lifts her hand to his mouth once more, this time brushing his lips over the still-visible red mark around her wrist. Their eyes lock, and the audible hitch of her breath matches the sudden spiking of his pulse. Her gaze drops to his mouth, then back to his eyes, and he feels a familiar heat begin to lick along his veins.

“I heard the shouting outside the house,” she murmurs, her hands still splayed flat across his chest, pressing the damp cotton of his shirt against his skin. “Did you want to tell me about it?”

He wants to tell her what happened with his father, what happened when he was ten years old. He also wants to dip his head and touch his tongue to the droplet of water on her collarbone, follow its downward path with his mouth until she’s writhing in his arms.

Unfortunately, he has time to do neither of these things. They’re waiting for him at the other end of the house, waiting for him to return so that they can plan how best to bring a corrupt administration to its knees.

“I do, but it's a very long story. Maybe we should-” Before he can say anything sensible like suggesting she gets some rest, she kisses him, softly, the taste of her lips an intoxicating blend of salt and rainwater. He lifts his hand to cup her jaw, tilting back her head, and her mouth opens beneath his like a flower. It’s a maddeningly gentle kiss, a slow exploration that both soothes and inflames his senses, but it goes no further than that. It’s a kiss meant as an affirmation, not a seduction, but his body isn’t quite as discerning as his mind, and it takes every ounce of willpower not to slide his hands over the smooth, damp skin of her hips.

She pulls away first, and he’s almost relieved. The others are waiting for him to return, but a few more seconds in this shower stall and he won’t care if he keeps them waiting all night. “You know, this isn’t quite how I’d pictured our first shower together.”

She laughs, and his chest tightens at the breathless sound of it. “I’m not sure I’m brave enough to ask exactly how you did picture it.”

“That’s probably a wise decision.” He sucks in a deep breath that does nothing to cool his blood. “The cleanest answer I can give you is often.”

He gets to his feet, silently cursing the fact that wet boxers are not the best camouflage in this particular situation. She takes pity on him, carefully keeping her eyes on his face as he helps her to stand. “You should try to get some sleep,” he says, putting his hands on her shoulders to stop himself from putting them anywhere more provocative.

She darts a shy glance at him. “Where?”

“The room where you were resting this afternoon will be fine.” Turning, he pulls open the shower door and reaches for a towel. “I have to talk to my family.” The word sounds foreign on his tongue, making him want to say it again. “I’ll let you finish your shower in peace,” he adds, forcing himself to step out of the stall.

His own plans involve drying off as quickly as possible and putting himself on the other side of the bathroom door, for his own peace of mind rather than hers. Besides, what he has planned for her deserves more than a five minute fumble in a bathroom.

She catches his hand in hers. “Michael?” Her face is flushed. “I think you need to get some sleep too,” she tells him softly, and his heart lurches.

“I’ll see what I can do.”

“Good.” She gives him a slow smile that makes his gut tighten, then shuts the shower screen. Through the opaque glass, he sees her reaching around to unfasten the clasp of her bra.

He grabs his dry clothes from the floor, then he’s on the other side of the bathroom door, shutting it behind him with a determined click, and reminds himself once again that he’s a patient man.


~*~


His father takes a sip of coffee and looks at his younger son. “So, that’s the Governor’s daughter?”

Michael tastes his own coffee - chipped mug, powdered milk, no sugar – and offers an extremely non-committal reply. “Yes.”

His father smiles. “She’s very pretty.”

Michael puts down his coffee and folds his arms across his chest, hating that being with this man makes him feel as though he’s a sullen teenager, but unable to stop it from happening every single time he opens his mouth. “Your point being?”

His father lifts up his hands in mock surrender. “Just making an observation.” They sit in silence for a moment, then he adds, “She may have lost her father whether you’d involved her or not, Michael.”

Michael closes his eyes, pressing his fingertips hard against his temples as the first spiky threads of a headache make themselves known. “I wish I could believe that.”

“Governor Tancredi was sent that tape because he was Governor, not because his daughter had asked him to grant clemency.” His father reaches across the table and touches Michael lightly on the arm. It’s their first physical contact in over twenty years, and Michael wishes it didn’t mean as much as it does. “Not everything is your fault, Michael.”

Michael shakes his head, not wanting to get into the subject of blame and guilt. Instead he forces himself to think of everything his father and Jane have told him about the tape supposedly containing hard proof that Terrence Steadman is still alive and well. “Would the tape be admissible in court?”

His father hesitates, then admits with obvious reluctance, “Hard to say until we’ve analyzed it.” He catches Michael’s eye. “But even if it’s not, it will still give us enough leverage to bargain for a pardon for your brother.”

Michael looks across the room to where Lincoln is talking to Jane in a low undertone, and wonders what it would feel like to stop running. To turn around and take the fight straight back to the people responsible for ruining so many lives. “We can end this thing,” he mutters, hardly daring to let himself believe what he’s saying.

“We get that tape, we can exonerate your brother.”

“And you think Sara’s father hid it somewhere in DC for her to find.” Perhaps he should find it highly unlikely that Frank Tancredi may have laid a trail of breadcrumbs via a Washington teahouse, but over the last few months he’s learned that nothing can be dismissed as being impossible. “A little risky, don’t you think? Frank Tancredi wasn’t exactly known for being a spontaneous man.”

“I think he realised the magnitude of what he was up against.” His father sighs heavily. “I think he did the best he could with what little time he had before his flight back to Chicago.”

“So, what happens now?” Lincoln has come to stand at his father’s shoulder. He looks even wearier than Michael feels. “We go after the tape?”

“Jane’s already contacted our people in Washington. They’ll be making some discreet enquiries.” Their father takes another sip of coffee, then pushes the empty mug away as he looks at his sons in turn. “Which means you won’t be needing that contact of yours to get you across the border.”

Lincoln glances at his father, then at Michael. “We stop running.”

Michael nods. “Yes.”

They look at each other for a long moment, then a slow smile spreads across his brother’s face. “About fucking time.”


~*~


The main bedroom is spartan to the point of looking like a room in a monastery - if the monks were allowed double beds, that is. Not wanting to wake Sara, he doesn’t turn on the light; the moonlight streaming through the window provides enough illumination. He tries not to notice the huge wooden cross on the wall, preferring to focus on the distinctly feminine figure stretched out on one side of the bed.

As he strips down to t-shirt and boxers – his second set that day – she stirs, and asks in a voice thick with sleep, “What time is it?”

It’s two in the morning, but she doesn’t need to know that. “Late. Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“That’s okay.” She props herself up on one elbow, the sheet covering her falling away just enough for him to see she’s stolen one of his clean t-shirts. “What’s happening out there?”

“My father and Jane have contacted some of their people in Washington.” He hesitates for a moment, then pulls his t-shirt up and over his head. It’s by no means stifling, but it’s far from cool. “They’re going to check out the teahouse, see what they can find out.”

He knows she's watching him as he folds his t-shirt and puts it the straight-backed wooden chair in the corner of the room, but it’s too dark for him to see her face clearly. “I-” she breaks off, her words little more than a hesitant whisper. “I just want to sleep with you.” She gives him a tremulous smile. “Is that okay?”

Considering they’d spent last night driving across two states, barely speaking a word to each other, it’s a very sensible suggestion. Of course, he’s never been sensible when it comes to this woman, but he’s spent a long time controlling his hunger for her. “Sure.”

She wriggles backwards, giving him some room as he slides into the bed beside her. He rolls onto his side, instinctively putting himself between her and the closed door, and she curls up behind him, wrapping herself around him, her arm sliding around his waist, one long leg sliding between his. “This is much more comfortable than the back seat of your car,” she quips, and he smiles into the darkness.

“If I remember correctly, you’re the one who bought that car.”

She chuckles softly under her breath. “And I got it for a song, too.”

His smile widens, remembering how she’d thwarted the sleazy used car salesman who’d tried to rip her off. “If your lead turns out to be correct, we won’t be crossing the border tomorrow.” She says nothing, but the arm around his waist tightens, as though his words have made her uneasy. He takes a deep breath, filling his head with the scent of her skin, the warmth of her against his back, and he feels his whole body slowly relax. “I want this to work, Sara.”

“Well, your father seems to think it will.”

“No, I want this to work.” He skims his hand up her forearm to tangle his fingers with hers, then presses her hand hard against his heart. “You and me.”

He feels the butterfly-light touch of her fingertips skirting the bandage covering the burn on his back, then the soft press of her lips on the back of his neck. “So do I.”

A few minutes later, her breathing changes its rhythm, becoming slow and deep, and he knows she’s asleep. He stares into the darkness, thinking about everything that’s brought him to this point. He knows they’ve never been in more danger, but tonight, almost everybody he cares about is here in this house. It’s small comfort, but tonight, it’s almost enough.



~*~



When he opens his eyes, he’s alone, and the sun is pouring through the window. He smoothes one hand over the still-warm sheet on Sara’s side of the bed, then looks at his watch. It’s six o’clock, and the early morning cool is already evaporating. He stretches out, hands behind his head, staring at the ceiling, trying to decide if he’s grateful or disappointed that Sara had obviously decided not to disturb his sleep.

He finds her sitting with Lincoln and LJ at the long table, eating what looks like half-thawed bread and honey. “No bananas, I’m afraid,” he tells her with a smile. She grins at him, and his mouth goes dry. Dressed in yesterday’s clothes with hastily brushed hair and no makeup, she still manages to make his heart stop in its tracks.

“We found some bread in the freezer,” LJ informs him, obviously unaware that Michael knows every single item in the whole house. “But the toaster doesn’t work.”

“Sorry about that.” He looks at his brother. “Where is he?”

Lincoln frowns. “If you mean Dad, he’s in the kitchen.”

Michael ignores the frown. “What do we know about Washington?”

Lincoln hands LJ a paper towel to wipe his hands, then looks at Michael. “Jane’s working on it now.”

“Your father asked me for my mother’s maiden name and any nicknames Dad may have had for us,” Sara tells him as she reaches for another slice of bread. “I guess he didn’t realise we weren’t the nicknaming kind of family.” Her smile goes some way to take the sting out of her words, but not all of it.

“Half your luck,” LJ mutters, earning himself a scowl from his father and a chuckle from Sara.

Their father appears in the doorway, Jane at his shoulder. “We’re leaving in an hour,” he announces to the room at large.

Michael glances at Lincoln and Sara, then at his father. “What’s happening?”

Jane still looks as pressed and precise as she did the night before, and Michael wonders if she slept at all. “Our people have reliable intelligence that Frank Tancredi visited 8th Street in DC approximately two hours before he boarded the flight to Chicago.”

It’s as though all the air has suddenly been sucked out of the room. Lincoln pushes back his chair with a loud scrape as he gets to his feet. “So we’re going to Washington?”

“Right into the lion’s den,” Michael murmurs, watching Sara’s pale but determined expression, LJ’s nervous excitement, his father's quiet vindication.

“We need to replenish supplies and gas up the SUV,” Jane says brusquely, “but it would be a bad idea to do it en route.”

Michael’s father nods. “I’ll take care of that now.” He looks at Michael. “Maybe you could come with me.”

“Good idea,” Lincoln remarks, tossing Michael a pointed glance. “Give you a chance to catch up.”

Glaring at his brother, Michael opens his mouth to shoot back a sharp retort, then decides there’s no point. Resigning himself to some quality time with his father, he walks to the table and reaches for a piece of honey-covered bread. At least it’s not deep-fried, he thinks, then gives his father a nod. “Give me five minutes.”


~*~


“Nice car.”

His father darts a wry glance in his direction, obviously well aware of the less than sincere tone in his son’s voice. “Standard issue.”

“Did Mom know?” Michael asks abruptly, unable to keep the words from tumbling from his lips.

“About my job?”

Michael nods, not trusting himself to speak, and his father sighs. “She knew enough to know I couldn’t afford to be completely honest with her.”

He stares out the window, finally realizing why Sara had found it such an escape during their long bouts on the road. Outside the car was another world, big enough in which to lose yourself a hundred times over. “She told us you were a drunken bum who’d walked out on us.”

“I know.”

His father’s casual acknowledgment infuriates him. “How could you do it? Just walk away from everything?”

“What you have to remember, Michael, is that I loved your mother very much.” His father flexes his hands restlessly on the steering wheel, and Michael unwillingly recognizes the shared habit.

“Funny way of showing it, leaving her to raise two kids alone.’

“There are a lot of different ways of protecting people, Michael. Sometimes you have to make sacrifices.” His father glances at him. “Didn’t you walk away from your whole life when you deliberately botched that bank job?”

Michael stares out the window, knowing he has no answer to that.

They head for the largest store in the hopes of finding the medical supplies and batteries they need. His father elects to do the legwork, something to which Michael readily agrees, knowing that sending a less recognizable face out into the field is always the best course of action. Nevertheless, he’s not entirely comfortable simply waiting for his father in the car. He waits outside the entrance of the store, his baseball cap pulled low over his eyes, and listens to his father as he makes easy conversation with the store’s owner, fighting the urge to check his watch every other second.

After the events of the last two days, the thought of leaving Sara had been an unpalatable one. Obviously sensing his reluctance, Lincoln had drawn him aside and bluntly pointed out that he and Jane were more than capable of protecting both Sara and LJ. Michael couldn’t deny that his brother was right, but it hadn’t made it any easier to walk out that front door.

He glances into the store once more, dismayed to hear that the friendly conversation between his father and the store owner is still going strong. They're now discussing the weather and his father’s purchases, but finally the woman asks the inevitable question. “Where’re you from?”

“Vermont,” his father answers, naming a place Michael has never been in his life.

“Must be the day for strangers today,” the woman says cheerily, and Michael’s blood chills.

“A few people passing through, hey?” His father’s reply is casual, but Michael hears the sudden tension in his voice.

“Had a fellow in an awful rush just now,” she answers, “wanting directions to some place or another. Folks are always in a rush these days.”

“I guess he was one of those people who don’t even bother buying something,” his father prompts, and the woman shakes her head.

“No, he wasn’t as bad as some. Poor fella must have hurt himself, he bought up a pile of bandages and iodine.” He hears the clanging of the cash register, then she says, “I offered him some freshly brewed coffee to perk him up, but he said he had friends waiting on him.”

Michael’s blood ices over. Pulling his cell phone out of his pocket, he dials the familiar number, his heart starting to pound. When Linc picks up, he doesn’t waste time on small talk. “I need to talk to Sara.”

Ten seconds later, she’s on the other end of the line, trepidation in her voice. “Michael? What’s wrong?”

“Those cranes I sent you-”

“What about them?”

“Do you have them with you or are they still in your apartment?”

There’s a pause, then she mutters with obvious embarrassment, “I keep them in my purse.”

“Get your purse. Check to see if they’re still there.”

She doesn’t ask for an explanation. “Hang on, it’s in the bedroom.” Hearing muted sounds in the background, he can easily picture her rushing down the long hallway, rummaging through her oversized purse. “They’re gone,” she tells him, the panic in her voice more than matching his own. “Kellerman took them, didn’t he?”

He doesn’t reply. They both know the answer to that question. “Sara, listen to me. Tell Lincoln and Jane that the Company knows where they are and that they’re coming.”

“Michael-”

“Be careful,” Michael tells her as his father walks out of the store with a paper bag of supplies cradled in his arms, not wanting to think of the very real possibility that this may be the last time he speaks to her. “I’ll see you very soon.” He disconnects the call and grabs his father’s arm, pulling him towards the SUV. “Kellerman has the location of the safe house.”

“How the hell did he get that?” his father demands as they reach the car. Tucking the paper bag under his arm, he tosses the keys to his son, then hurries around to the passenger side door.

“That doesn’t matter.” Michael bites out the words as the vehicle roars into life. “We have to get back to the house. Now.”



~*~

~*~




“I need to talk to Sara.”

Ten seconds later, she’s on the other end of the line, trepidation in her voice. “Michael? What’s wrong?”

“Those cranes I sent you-”

“What about them?”

“Do you have them with you or are they still in your apartment?”

There’s a pause, then she mutters with obvious embarrassment, “I keep them in my purse.”

“Get your purse. Check to see if they’re still there.”

She doesn’t ask for an explanation. “Hang on, it’s in the bedroom.” Hearing muted sounds in the background, he can easily picture her rushing down the long hallway, rummaging through her oversized purse. “They’re gone,” she tells him, the panic in her voice more than matching his own. “Kellerman took them, didn’t he?”

He doesn’t reply. They both know the answer to that question. “Sara, listen to me. Tell Lincoln and Jane that the Company knows where they are and that they’re coming.”

“Michael-”

“Be careful,” Michael tells her as his father walks out of the store with a paper bag of supplies cradled in his arms, not wanting to think of the very real possibility that this may be the last time he speaks to her. “I’ll see you very soon.” He disconnects the call and grabs his father’s arm, pulling him towards the SUV. “Kellerman has the location of the safe house.”

“How the hell did he get that?” his father demands as they reach the car. Tucking the paper bag under his arm, he tosses the keys to his son, then hurries around to the passenger side door.

“That doesn’t matter.” Michael bites out the words as the vehicle roars into life. “We have to get back to the house. Now.”


~*~


Much later, he will remember almost nothing about the return journey other than a sharp, sour fear so palpable he can almost taste it. Beside him, his father has one hand braced on the dashboard of the SUV as he rattles off everything he and Jane had unearthed about Paul Kellerman. Michael only half listens as the words fill the air around him - military academy, Kuwait, recruited to the Company, Caroline Reynold’s personal pitbull – then his father finishes with, “He plays rough, and he plays dirty.”

Michael thinks of Lincoln gasping for breath with Kellerman’s gloved hands over his face. He thinks of Sara flinging herself through the hotel doorway, of the plastic sheeting and bone saw lying on the carpet behind her. He thinks of LJ watching his mother and stepfather murdered in front of him, and he presses his foot harder on the accelerator. “I know.”

“Why are you so sure it’s him?”

Michael hesitates. He’d hoped to avoid this question, because answering it means having to say the words out loud, having to admit that he’s put them all in danger because he wasn’t able to stop himself reaching out to Sara.

“Sara had something in her handbag that someone could have used to work out our location if they knew what they were looking for,” he finally says, keeping his eyes on the road ahead.

He hears his father sigh. “Something you sent her.”

It’s not a question, but he answers it anyway. “Yes.”

It seems to take his father an eternity to reply. “I guess you’re not the sort of person who can just walk away, after all.” His tone is mild, without a hint of accusation, and Michael feels the tight knot across his chest loosen just a little.

“I guess not.”

As they approach the house, he sees Kellerman’s dark blue sedan parked a few hundred yards away to the side of the house, but there’s no sign of its driver. At the front of the house, the Rambler is sits where he and Sara left it the day before, but with one very important difference. LJ is now crouched behind the old car, looking very much like the teenaged runaway he is, frantically waving them closer.

“God, LJ,” Michael mutters, and his father hurriedly gestures for him to veer off the dirt road towards the front of the house.

“Pull up behind LJ. Try to keep your head down.”

Not bothering to ask how he’s supposed to do both things at once, Michael obeys, his heart pounding. LJ looks up from his hiding place as Michael cuts the engine, then scrambles into the backseat of the SUV. He’s breathing heavily, his face stained with dust and the faintest trace of tears, but he’s in one piece.

Michael’s father twists around in his seat, his gaze urgently searching his grandson’s face. “Are you all right?”

Once again, LJ looks at them with eyes that have seen far too much for someone his age. “I’m not hurt, if that’s what you mean.”

“He’s here?”

LJ nods. “Inside.”

Michael’s stomach turns over. “Where’s your Dad?”

“He’s inside, too.” His nephew swallows hard. “Everyone else is still inside.”

“What happened?”

He rubs his hands over his face – Michael understands now about the dust – then sniffs loudly. “I was standing in the kitchen with Jane when Sara came running in saying something about the Company knowing where we were, then Jane saw him through the window, walking towards the house.” LJ turns his head to stare at the front door. “He had his hands in the air, holding up his gun. Jane fired a shot over his head, then the bastard freaking shot back at her through the window!”

Michael looks at his nephew, a cold wave of nausea washing over him. “Was anyone hurt?”

LJ nods, and Michael’s vision blurs around the edges, but then LJ’s speaking again and he’s saying Jane, the bullet nicked Jane in the arm.

Almost – but not quite – ashamed of the relief that sweeps over him, he stares at the house. “Is she okay?”

LJ nods again. “Lots of blood, but I heard Sara say it was just a graze.”

Michael’s father puts his hand on his shoulder. “How did you get out here?”

“Dad grabbed me and told me go to the bathroom, lock the door and not come out, no matter what I heard.” LJ looks at them both in turn, then sighs and answers the unasked question. “I, uh, jimmied open the window and climbed out.” He swallows hard again. “That was about fifteen minutes ago. I didn’t want to leave Dad and the other guys in there, but I thought if I stayed out here to wait for you-” He breaks off, suddenly looking close to tears. “I didn’t know what else to do.”

Michael’s father’s gaze narrows. “Wait, he’s alone?”

LJ nods, and his grandfather smiles. Michael stares at him. “What?”

His father nods towards the house. “If he’s here alone, that means he’s acting - ”

“Alone.” Michael feels a tiny flicker of hope break through his fear. “No backup.”

“Exactly.” His father turns to LJ. “Any other shots fired?”

LJ shakes his head. “None.”

Michael feels the ghost of a bleak smile touch his lips. “Two against one,” he says flatly, reaching for the door handle.

“Son, you can’t just go rushing in there.”

He tosses his father a quick glance that’s still long enough to recognise the echo of his own features in the stubborn set of the other man’s jaw. “Watch me.” He opens the car door and slides out, careful to stay behind the body of the vehicle rather than the window.

His father makes an exasperated sound in the back of his throat, then climbs out of the SUV, making his way around to stand beside his son, his hand tentatively touching his arm. “Michael, wait -”

“Linc and Sara are in there.” Michael stares at the drawn curtains, the half-open front door. “He’s already tried to kill both of them once. You expect me to wait?” They’re talking in hushed whispers, but the anger in his voice still manages to slice through the hot air.

His father lets his hand drop, but he doesn’t move out of Michael’s path. “You do this the wrong way, and you may as well put a gun to their heads yourself.”

Michael feels the blood drain from his face, and his father’s expression softens. Putting one hand on his son’s shoulder, he reaches beneath his jacket with the other to draw out his handgun. He clicks the safety off, then looks at Michael. “Stay out of sight until I tell you otherwise.”

Michael nods, suddenly speechless with both dread and something that feels very much like gratitude, then his father is moving towards the house, moving with the grace of a man half his age. Not for the first time, Michael wonders just who the hell this man is, and knows that things may have been far simpler if his father had stayed a drunken bum who’d simply deserted them.

His father is skirting the edge of the house, moving towards the front door, when Michael hears someone call out from inside the house. “Dad?”

Michael blinks at the sound of Lincoln’s voice, and finds himself taking an almost involuntary step towards the house, but his father waves him back. Then Lincoln calls out again, his voice strong and clear. “It’s okay, Dad. Everything’s under control.”

His heart somewhere in the back of his throat, Michael watches as his father walks cautiously towards the front door, and pushes it open with his free hand. After several endless seconds, he turns back towards the SUV, the relief in his face plain to see. “Come on, Michael.”

“Let’s go,” he mutters to LJ, then strides towards the house, his nephew at his heels. When he walks through the doorway, he blinks as his eyes adjust to the sudden absence of glaring sun, then he stops dead in his tracks.

Paul Kellerman is sitting on one side of the long wooden table, his hands laid flat on its scarred surface, the left side of his jaw puffy and already turning purple. Lincoln is sitting opposite him, gun in his hand aimed squarely between Kellerman’s eyes. Jane is leaning against the wall behind Kellerman, both her gaze and her gun trained on the back of his head. She’s discarded her black jacket to reveal a sleeveless white shirt, and Michael sees the bandage high on her left arm. “What the hell is going on?”

Lincoln doesn’t take his eyes off Kellerman as he answers. “He says he wants to make a deal,” he says flatly, cynicism literally dripping from every word.

Staring at the man who’d left Sara to drown in a cheap motel bathtub, Michael once again knows what it’s like to wish someone dead. “You have got to be fucking kidding me.”

Kellerman holds up both hands in surrender, his mocking smile a perfect match for his words. “I’m here to help you.”

Michael ignores him, his gaze sweeping the room. “Where’s Sara?”

“Bedroom.” Lincoln’s lip curls as he looks across the table. “She didn’t feel like keeping company with this piece of crap.”

“I can’t say I blame her.” Michael studies Kellerman’s swollen jaw with a calm he’s far from feeling. “Nice bruise.”

“Your brother has a very impressive right hook.” Kellerman holds his gaze for a few seconds, then glances over Michael’s shoulder. “Well, well, well. This is a reunion of sorts, isn’t it?”

Lincoln twists in his chair, his eyes widening as he catches sight of his son, who is obviously no longer locked in the bathroom. He opens his mouth as if to speak, then shakes his head and turns his attention back to the man across the table. “Talk to my son again and I’ll have no trouble pulling this trigger,” he says casually, as though advising Kellerman of the latest football scores. “We’re all here now, so spill it.”

Kellerman gazes moves from Michael to the older man to his right. “Hello, Aldo. It’s been a while.”

Taken aback, Michael turns to look at his father. Aldo Burrows’ face looks as though it’s carved in stone. “Not long enough.” He takes a slow step towards the table. “Last time we saw each other, you were trying to kill my son.”

“Not to mention framing my kid for murder and your little adventure with Doctor Tancredi.” Lincoln puts his elbow on the table, his hand steady as he aims the barrel of his gun between Kellerman’s dark eyebrows. “Give me one reason why I shouldn’t kill you right now.”

Once again, Kellerman holds up both hands. “I realise that these things going to be an issue for you, but you, at least,” he looks at Michael’s father, “know the game well enough to know that I was just following orders.”

Michael’s father looks at him with obvious contempt. “A good soldier doesn’t murder and torture innocent people.”

Kellerman shrugs. “Ah, but we both know that’s not always the case, though, don’t we?”

Michael glances at his father – whose expression is still implacable - then at Lincoln. “Why are we even listening to this?”

Kellerman leans back in his chair, leaving his hands splayed flat on the table top. “Because for once, we’re all on the same page.”

Lincoln scowls across the table. “I doubt that.”

Kellerman smiles at him. “I understand your confusion, but if you want to bring down the President, you’re going to need an inside man.”

Michael doesn’t bother hiding his disbelief. “Would this be the same President who authorised the murder of Richard Mills so she could step over his body straight into the White House?”

“The very same,” Kellerman admits almost cheerily. “However, I’m no longer backing that particular horse.”

His father looks at Jane as if for confirmation. To Michael’s surprise, she nods. “I spoke to Nolan in Washington a few minutes ago.” She gestures towards Kellerman with the barrel of her gun. “He’s been frozen out.”

“That’s right.” He’s looking at Jane now, seemingly unconcerned about having a gun in his face. “I’ve been wiped clean.”

Lincoln frowns. “Why?”

Michael feels his hands curling into fists. “For failing to fix the problem of the Governor’s daughter, I should imagine.”

Kellerman tilts his head to one side, a smirk curving his mouth. “I can see why they call you the mastermind of this little operation, Scofield.”

The urge to make this man feel even a small measure of the pain he’d caused Sara rises up inside him once again, and he feels his control start to fray around the edges. “You didn’t answer my brother’s question,” he says flatly. “Give us one good reason why we should keep you alive after everything you’ve done?”

“Because you need me.” Kellerman’s steady gaze doesn’t waver. “You might have the doctor and her father’s cryptic trail of crumbs, but I’m the one who put Caroline Reynolds where she is, and I can just as easily take the bitch down again.” He looks at Lincoln. “And because I know where Terrance Steadman is.”

The name seems to ricochet through the room, then Michael’s father breaks the silence. “Where?”

“Montana.”

Michael stares at Kellerman, his head suddenly filled with Veronica’s last phone call to Lincoln. The line had been bad, but Lincoln had heard enough to know that she’d been calling from Montana. Shock flickers across his brother’s face as the same thought obviously occurring to him, his whole body stiffening with anger. “You fucking bastard.” His fingers clench on the handle of his gun, then their father is beside him, his hand on his shoulder.

“Don’t. I know how much you want to pull that trigger, but he’s not worth it.” His hand still on Lincoln’s shoulder, their father looks at Jane once more. “Get on the wire. See what you can find out.” He nods at Kellerman, his expression grim. “See if he’s worth keeping alive.”

Jane gives Kellerman a hard smile. “Of course.”

“In the meantime -” Michael’s father crosses the room to rummage through a dark backpack, pulling out a roll of duct tape. “We might make our guest a little more secure.”

“Works for me,” Lincoln mutters darkly, his eyes and the barrel of his gun never leaving Kellerman’s face. As their father tears off a long strip of tape, Michael makes a sudden decision.

“Wait.” Both his brother and father look at him with obvious surprise, but they say nothing as he takes three deliberate strides to stand beside Paul Kellerman. “The cranes you took from Sara’s purse.”

Kellerman raises his eyebrows. “What about them?”

“Give them to me.” Michael holds out his hand. “Now.”

Kellerman sighs, then makes a show of patting down his pockets. Michael gives him five seconds, then snaps his fingers. “Now,” he repeats, his voice hardening.

Leaning forward, the other man draws three paper birds – now looking rather worse for wear – from the back pocket of his jeans and drops them into Michael’s open palm. “You know, Scofield, you’ve only got yourself to blame. Any kid who does enough crossword puzzles could have worked those things out eventu -”

Lincoln takes the safety off his gun, the loud click cutting off Kellerman’s last word, and Michael doesn’t both hiding his smile at the sight of the other man’s obvious discomfort. His fingers curling over the paper cranes in his hand, he watches his father quickly bind the other man’s hands behind him and his feet to the front legs of the wooden chair. He watches the tape bite into the flesh of Kellerman’s wrists, and feels his smile widen. Perhaps he should worry about what kind of man that makes him, but he doesn’t particularly care. When it’s done, he looks at his father. “How soon are we leaving?”

His father glances down the hallway, then back at him. “Ten minutes.”

“Fine.” Turning his back on Paul Kellerman, he slips the cranes into his trouser pocket and walks down the hallway in search of Sara. As he’d expected, she’s in the room they’d shared the night before, haphazardly shoving clothes into the duffle bag that’s sitting open on the bed. She doesn’t look up as he stands in the doorway, but he knows she knows he’s there.

“Are you okay?” Ridiculous question, he knows, but he doubts she wants to hear him apologise again.

“Not really.” She looks pointedly at the open bedroom door. He closes it behind him, and she abruptly drops onto the bed, a crumpled t-shirt in her hands. “He shot Jane in the goddamned arm, then came waltzing in with his hands above his head.” She bites out the words as though every one of them leaves a very bad taste in her mouth. “Grinning like a fucking schoolboy who’d been caught playing hooky.”

Despite everything, he can’t help but be amused by the unfamiliar sound of Sara Tancredi cussing. He sits down next to her, then reaches out to take the t-shirt from her hand and puts it on the bed beside him. “He says he wants to help us take down the President.” He tangles his fingers through hers, squeezing her hand gently. “And that he knows where Terrence Steadman is being hidden.”

She draws in a deep breath, staring down at their entwined hands. “How can you possibly trust him after everything’s that happened?”

“I don’t.”

At his words, he feels some of the tension go out of her. “When he was -” she breaks off, her voice cracking, then starts again. “He told me he didn’t have anything to do with my dad’s death.” She screws up her face, and he knows she’s doing everything she can to hold herself together. “But when I saw him and he was smiling at me, I didn’t care if that was the truth or not.” Her hand clenches around his, her voice small and hard and cold. “I wanted to kill him.”

There’s suddenly a lump in Michael’s throat the size of a fist. Oh, Sara. He lifts his other hand to touch her face, then her hair, smoothing his thumb over the soft curve of her jaw. “We’ll get to Washington, we’ll find whatever it was that your father left for you, and we’ll do what needs to be done to end this thing.”

She leans into his touch so naturally that almost breaks his heart, but her voice is still hard. “Why is he helping us?”

Why, indeed, Michael wonders silently, but offers her the best explanation he can. “Because apparently Caroline Reynolds has tossed him aside.” He gives her a wry smile. “I don’t think he’s taking it too well.”

She frowns, and he can almost see her mind whirring. “Why do we need him when we already know where to find what my father left for me?”

“Because we don’t know exactly what we’re going to find,” he points out gently, “and he has the connections to help us use whatever we do find.” He squeezes her hand again. “He’s right. We need him.”

She blows out a long breath, then shakes her head. “I can’t do this.”

“Yes, you can.” He bows his head, catching her gaze with his. “You’re one of the strongest people I know, Sara.”

A blush steals across her face, but she doesn’t smile. “So strong I fell straight into a vial of morphine as soon as things got bad.”

He brushes an errant strand of auburn hair back from her face, letting his fingertips linger on the delicate curve of her ear. “Are you using now?”

She frowns. “You know I’m not.”

“We all stumble and fall,” he tells her, wondering if she’ll ever know how well he knows the truth of what he’s saying. “What matters is what we do afterwards.”

Her eyes fill with tears, but she blinks them away determinedly. “You should write greeting cards,” she mutters and maybe he should be offended, but she’s squeezing his hand tightly, the hint of a smile flirting with her mouth. “Maybe you should look into that as a career when this is all over.”

He grins. Before he’d ever met her, he’d drawn the impression that Sara Tancredi was a remarkable woman. Now that he knows her, he’s astounded by just how remarkable. “Maybe.”

She sniffs, then shakes her head ruefully. “Speaking of alternate careers - I finally know why they used to call your brother Linc the Sink.” She’s smiling now. “I’ve never seen anyone punch someone so hard outside a boxing ring.”

“Linc’s always been very good at brawling.”

She tilts her head to give him a speculative look. “Must run in the family.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’ve seen you in action, remember? Kicking the stuffing out of that inmate’s head when we were climbing through the ceiling?”

He remembers all too well. He remembers how he’d felt when he’s seen her on the guard’s monitor, crouched in her office, clutching a makeshift weapon. He remembers he didn’t hesitate to reconfigure the plan in order to keep her safe. That day seems like a lifetime ago, but nothing much has changed. He is still prepared to do whatever it takes to keep her safe, and if that means dancing with the devil in the form of Paul Kellerman, then so be it.

“I’m an amateur compared to Linc, trust me,” he replies as he reluctantly gets to his feet. This could very well be the last peaceful moment they have together for a long time, and as much as he knows they can’t stay in this room, he’s loathe to leave it behind. “We have to go.”

She nods, picking up the t-shirt he’d dropped and shoving it into the duffle bag without ceremony. “I know.” He watches her zip up the bag, then holds out his hand. She takes it, letting him pull her to her feet, slipping her arms around his waist and hugging him tightly, taking him by surprise. Since her father’s death, he’s been careful to let her set the pace, careful not to push her, but it seems that the events of the last twelve hours have wiped away any lingering constraints between them.

He wraps his arms around her, closing his eyes as he buries his nose in the soft cloud of her hair. She exhales loudly, the soft rise and fall of her breasts pushing against his chest, the smooth skin of her cheek flush against his, and Michael is suddenly overwhelmed by a sense of perfect symmetry. This isn’t the first time he’s held her but, obviously distracted by other more corporeal things, he has never realised how perfectly she fits into his arms.

He pulls her closer, tighter, not wanting to let her go, knowing that he has no choice. “I won’t let him touch you again.”

He feels her sigh, then the brush of her lips against his cheek. “I know.”


~*~


Lincoln meets them in the long hallway. “Ready to go?”

She gives him a wan smile. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”

Slinging the duffle bag over his shoulder, Michael looks at his brother. “How’s this going to work?”

Lincoln hesitates, but only for a few seconds. “We’re splitting up. Meeting in DC in forty-eight hours.” His mouth tightens, and Michael sees the anxiety in his eyes. “Dad and Jane are taking LJ with them.”

Beside him, Michael feels Sara tense. He puts his hand on the small of her back, rubbing his thumb in tiny circles, and studies his brother’s weary features. “Leaving Kellerman with us.”

Lincoln runs his hand over his still closely-cropped head, darting a wary glance at Sara. “Yeah.” When she says nothing, he sighs heavily. “I know he’s the last person you want to be around, but I need to keep LJ as far away from this as possible. Dad and Jane will be able to get him somewhere safe.”

Sara nods. “I understand, Lincoln. It’s fine.”

Michael knows it isn’t fine. He can feel the tension running through her like a faint hum below the surface of her skin, the rigid set of her shoulders. “Everyone else outside?”

Lincoln nods. “Jane’s sweeping Kellerman’s car now.”

Sara frowns, then turns to Michael. “I guess that means we’re leaving our car here.”

They’re on the run from so many people he’s lost count. They still have no guarantee any of them will make it out of this alive. Given all of that, it’s ridiculous that hearing Sara say our car should make him feel as though someone’s lit a candle inside him.

But it does. “We’ll buy another one when this is all over,” he tells her, and she gives him a smile that makes him think nothing’s impossible.

Outside the house, Kellerman is standing apart from the others, leaning against the hood of his car, slowly rubbing each of his wrists in turn, much to Michael’s quiet satisfaction. Jane strides towards them, evidently finished looking over the dark blue sedan. She has a murmured conversation with their father, then moves to stand in front of Lincoln, her blue eyes trained on his face. She doesn’t touch him, or even smile, but Michael is once again aware of something unspoken passing between them. “You don’t need to worry about LJ.”

Lincoln looks at her, his face softer somehow, and not for the first time, Michael wonders exactly what had transpired on the journey from Kingman to Gila. “I know.”

She gives Sara and Michael a cordial nod then steps away, obviously wishing to give the newly rediscovered family a moment alone. Michael finds himself hugging his nephew, taking care not to say anything that might embarrass a sixteen year-old. Funny, he can’t even remember being that age himself now. “We’ll see you soon.”

LJ nods, then turns to Sara. Michael sees hesitation in both their faces, then LJ sticks out his hand. A smile breaking across her face, Sara takes his hand and pulls him into a quick hug that’s still long enough to make LJ blush. Then he’s hugging his father, saying goodbye yet again, and Lincoln looks as though this time is almost more than he can bear.

“I love you, kid,” he says gruffly, each word sounding as though it’s been dragged out from the bottom of his chest, then cuffs LJ gently on the ear. “Do what Aldo and Jane tell you to do, okay?”

“Love you, too.” LJ gives his father a shaky smile as he climbs into the backseat of the SUV. Jane is already in the driver’s seat.

“See you in forty-eight hours.” Michael’s father casts a glance over his shoulder at Kellerman who is standing several yards away, a picture of bored disdain. “He’s a useful asset, but nothing he can give us is worth any of your lives.”

Michael narrows his gaze against the glare, unable to stop himself trying to memorize the lines of his father’s face. Everything’s still so messed up in his head – he still doesn’t know who the hell this man truly is - but maybe when all this is done, he can try to find out. “I know.”

He hands a slim black cell phone to Lincoln. “Call in once every two hours. Number one on the speed dial.” He shoots another dark glance at Kellerman. “If you miss a deadline, we’ll know something’s gone wrong.” He checks his watch, then looks at each of his sons in turn. “We can make this right.”

Michael shoves his hands in his pockets and takes a deep breath, finding it difficult to reconcile such an ordered departure with the fractured arrival of the day before. “I hope so.”

His father makes no move to embrace them, and Michael is inexplicably both relieved and disappointed. “Forty-eight hours.”

Lincoln nods, but his gaze is on his son, sitting quietly in the back of the SUV. “We’ll be there.”

They watch the SUV as it speeds away, and Michael is taken aback by the sudden sense of loss that assails him. His father has been less than nothing in his life - how can he feel the loss of something he’s never known?

Kellerman has donned mirrored sunglasses by the time they join him, but Michael doesn’t need to see his eyes to know that he’s studying Sara. By tacit agreement, Lincoln watches the other man as Michael tosses his duffle bag into the trunk of the car. He slams the trunk shut and looks up in time to see Kellerman giving Sara a charming wolf’s smile as he reaches out to open one of the back doors for her.

“No hard feelings, right? We all do what we have to do.” He dances his fingertips over the middle of his chest, over the iron-shaped burn Michael knows is there, his gaze mocking. “You should understand that, surely?”

Michael sees Sara flinch at the words, and that’s all he sees before he’s shoving Kellerman backwards against the side of the car. “Listen to me.” He presses his thumb hard against the other man’s windpipe, hears the breath rattle in his throat. “As far as you’re concerned, she doesn’t exist. You don’t talk to her, you don’t look at her.” He presses harder, his thumb on the artery, feeling the fragile ebb and flow of blood thinning beneath his touch. Perhaps he should be shocked at how satisfying it feels, but he’s not. “If you touch her again, I’ll make sure you don’t exist. Are we clear?”

“Crystal.” The word is little more than a guttural noise, but Michael doesn’t see the need to loosen his grip.

“Good.”

Then Lincoln is there, pulling his hands away from Kellerman’s throat. “Don’t do it, man.” Michael steps back, clenched fists falling to his sides. He knows Lincoln is right, but that doesn’t make it any easier to cool the fire in his blood.

Kellerman smiles even as he’s sucking in air, and Lincoln stares at him. “Don’t think this is for your benefit,” he informs him. “I just don’t want my brother to waste a murder rap on a piece of shit like you.”

“There’s that winning Burrows personality.” Kellerman’s neck is red, his voice reedy, but he still gives Lincoln a lofty smirk. “The one we knew would win over the jury.”

“Get in the car,” Lincoln snarls, “before I knock you out and shove you in the goddamned trunk.”

His pulse still roaring in his ears, Michael stares at Kellerman until the other man shrugs and looks away, climbing into the front passenger seat without another word. Michael shakes his head - as if that could possibly help clear his thoughts – then turns to Sara, standing beside him.

She looks at him, her eyes swimming with some dark emotion at which he’s almost afraid to guess, and he’s suddenly ashamed of his violent outburst. He turns away, then Sara’s hand brushes against his, her fingers sliding across his palm, and he knows that not only does she understand, she’s probably sorry Lincoln stopped him before he could finish the job.

He opens the car door for her, then puts a gentle hand on her elbow, the zip of her shoulder bag scratching against the inside of his wrist. She looks up at him curiously, her eyes narrowed against the glare, then her gaze drops to the three paper cranes in his hand. A tentative smile tugs at her mouth, then she plucks them from his palm and slides them carefully into the side pocket of her purse. “Thank you,” she says quietly, and something hollow twists in his chest.

She’s lost almost everything – her father, her career, her freedom – yet she’s thanking him for retrieving three origami birds. “It’s not much, but it’s a start,” he tells her, hoping she hears the promise in his words.

She does. She gives him a slow smile that makes his chest ache, then brushes past him to climb into the backseat of the car. He looks back at the safe house for a moment, then follows her, his hand no longer remembering the clammy flesh of Kellerman’s throat but the warmth of Sara’s touch.


~*~



He’s been in a few more emotionally claustrophobic situations than this one, but not many. Kellerman’s car has air-conditioning and leather seats and a working stereo – which makes a change from the van and the Rambler - but it also has Paul Kellerman. Michael has never been so grateful for crappy AM radio stations. The tinny music smothers the thick silence in the car, nullifying the need to make even the smallest of small talk.

Lincoln is behind the wheel, having tersely brushed off an offer to drive from their unwanted companion. Sitting beside him in the back seat – directly behind Kellerman, making it harder for him to make eye contact - Sara stares out the window, her hands listlessly fidgeting with the cuffs of her hooded top. After an hour, Sara shifts restless beside him, shifts closer without looking at him, then he feels her shoulder against his. Her bag now on her lap, she rummages through it for a moment, then holds out a battered but vaguely familiar packet.

Grinning, he takes a piece of grape-flavoured gum, even though he privately agrees with Lincoln that there are many better flavours out there. She gives him a smile but says nothing, and he knows she’s determined not to give Kellerman even the slightest chance to engage her in conversation. Tucking the gum back into her purse, she sits back in her seat, her shoulder still presses firmly against his.

Her hair has been hastily pulled back into a ponytail, and amidst the smell of heat and dust and male sweat, he can pick out the scent of her skin, the lemon soap she’d used in the shower the night before. He looks down at her hands, now resting limply in her lap, and can’t help wishing they were in a world where he could reach out and thread his fingers through hers without providing a goldmine of psychological fodder for the man sitting in front of her.

In a few days, he tells himself, all this will be over. He stares at the back of Kellerman's head. One way or another.

Just outside Albuquerque, after four hours of driving in a tense silence so potent Michael can almost feel it pressing down on his skin, the engine stutters, the car heaving and lurching. He leans forward, one hand on the back of Lincoln’s seat. “What’s wrong?”

His brother frowns, staring at the gauges on the dashboard. “Trouble.”

“Sounds like car trouble,” Kellerman remarks cheerily, and Lincoln gives him a dark look that Michael remembers only too well. His brother isn’t one to suffer smug jackasses all that well.

The engine dies as white smoke begins to plume from underneath the hood of the car, and Lincoln smacks his hand on the steering wheel. “This is not fucking happening. Not now.” He pulls over to the side of the road, but before he can even open his door, Sara is unbuckling her seat belt and climbing out of the car.

“Pop the hood?” she instructs Lincoln as she slams the door behind her. He does as she asks, then turns and gives Michael a quizzical look. Remembering what small knowledge he has of Sara’s relationship with cars, Michael gives his brother a grinning shrug, then opens his own door and goes to join her.

Hands on her hips, Sara is staring at the steaming engine with a frown that makes Michael’s heart sink. “Radiator hose is shot.”

“Can it be repaired?”

She shakes her head. “Look at it.”

He does, and his heart sinks even lower. The radiator hose has burst – there’s nothing left of it to repair. Sara gives him a despairing look. “Plan B?”

Hidden from prying eyes by the upraised hood of the car, he puts his hand on the back of her neck, brushing his thumb along the smooth curve of her throat. “Let me think for a minute.” Lincoln slams his door shut, and Michael reluctantly lets his hand drop, because he knows that Kellerman won’t be far behind and they really don’t need to add public displays of affection to the mix.

Lincoln looks under the hood, then turns to glare at Kellerman, who is now out of the car and leaning against the passenger door. “Great car you’ve got here.”

Kellerman scowls. “You’ll have to forgive me if I wasn’t expecting to be going on a college-style road trip across the fucking desert.”

Sighing heavily, Lincoln pinches the bridge of his nose, as though he’s counting to ten – or perhaps even twenty - then looks at Michael. “Now what?”

Michael stares back in the direction from which they’d come, mentally retracing their steps. “We passed a train station about half a mile back.” He looks at Sara, then his brother. “Ditch the car, catch the train.”

“Catch the train to Washington, DC?” Kellerman gives him an incredulous look. “You realise that will mean changing trains in Chicago, where your faces will be plastered over every wall in every single station exit?”

Michael stares at him. “It’s either that or we sit around waiting at some two-bit garage for the next six hours, so unless you’ve got a better idea, I think we should keep moving any way we can.” He sweeps his hand in the direction of the car, then raises his eyebrows. “Or maybe there’s a particular reason you want us to keep travelling in your Company-issued vehicle?” Kellerman’s gaze narrows as the unspoken insinuation hits its target, but says nothing. Michael jerks his chin towards the car. “If we’re all in agreement, maybe you could open the trunk.”

Kellerman stares at him for a beat, then shrugs. “Fine.”

A few minutes later, they’ve removed their belongings from the car and wiped down every hard surface with the last of the baby wipes from Michael’s duffel bag. Shrugging into a backpack, Kellerman watches Michael wipe down the handle of Sara’s door, sighing loudly. “If the fieldtrip is finally ready to move?”

Lincoln gives him a dour look, but only says, “After you.”

Somehow managing a smile that doubles as a snarl, Kellerman turns away and begins to walk, leading them back the way they’d come.

Lincoln looks at Michael. “This should be fun,” he deadpans, and Michael feels the ridiculous urge to chuckle bubbling up in his throat.

“Hmm.” He hefts his bag over his shoulder, catching Sara’s eye as he does. “Right up there with having my toes sliced off, I suspect.”

Sara ducks her head, but not before he sees her grin. They start trudging after Lincoln, who is keeping a careful arm’s reach distance behind Kellerman. Feeling the hot sun on the back of his neck, Michael gives into a sudden impulse, pulling off his cap and dropping it onto Sara’s head. She looks up, startled, then tugs the brim down over her eyes. “Thanks.”

He smiles at her, his heart suddenly feeling as though it’s too large for his chest, and wonders why it ‘s always the little things that make you realise how much you have to lose. “You’re welcome.”

~*~

~*~


A few minutes later, they’ve removed their belongings from the car and wiped down every hard surface with the last of the baby wipes from Michael’s duffel bag. Shrugging into a backpack, Kellerman watches Michael wipe down the handle of Sara’s door, then sighs loudly. “If the fieldtrip is finally ready to move?”

Lincoln gives him a dour look, but only says, “After you.”

Somehow managing a smile that doubles as a snarl, Kellerman turns away and begins to walk, leading them back the way they’d come.

Lincoln looks at Michael. “This should be fun,” he deadpans, and Michael feels the ridiculous urge to chuckle bubbling up in his throat.

“Hmm.” He hefts his bag over his shoulder, catching Sara’s eye as he does. “Right up there with having my toes sliced off, I suspect.”

Sara ducks her head, but not before he sees her grin. They start trudging after Lincoln, who is keeping a careful arm’s reach distance behind Kellerman. Feeling the hot sun on the back of his neck, Michael gives into a sudden impulse, pulling off his cap and dropping it onto Sara’s head. She looks up, startled, then tugs the brim down over her eyes. “Thanks.”

He smiles at Sara, his heart suddenly feeling as though it’s too large for his chest, and wonders why it’s always the little things that make you realise how much you have to lose. “You’re welcome.”

They walk for several minutes in silence. Michael keeps his eyes on his brother and their unwanted tour guide, and can’t help noticing Kellerman’s faintly uneven gait. “Hey, Linc?”

His brother turns around, waiting for them to catch up. When they do, Michael jerks his head towards Kellerman and gives Lincoln a dour smile. “Looks like your aim was a little off.”

Lincoln watches the other man as he walks ahead of them, clearly favouring his right leg, then snorts. “Should’ve backed over him while I had the chance.”

Beside Michael, Sara blows out an audible breath. “I can’t believe you didn’t.”

“That would be my fault,” Michael tells her, suddenly wishing he hadn’t started this line of conversation. “I told Linc to try not to kill him.”

She gives him a fleeting of smile – of amusement? Forgiveness? He’s not sure – then she pulls the brim of his cap lower over her eyes. “Well, you know what they say. Hindsight’s a bitch,” she mutters wearily.

Michael glowers at Kellerman’s back. “Definitely.”

~*~

Walking quickly under the hot sun, it takes twenty-five minutes to reach the train station, and with every crunch of his boots on the dirt Michael tells himself that they’re one step closer to swinging in a hammock for the next twenty years. The thought has him casting a glance at Sara, assailed by a sudden feeling of uncertainty. Lincoln may have laughed at the idea of a dive shop, but Michael knows that once the dust has settled, anywhere he and LJ might find some peace will be a good place.

Sara is different. She’s used to being with people, helping people. They may have joked about the guest room in his mythical beach house, but he really has no idea how she’d feel about spending the next few years cooling her heels on a foreign beach. He could ask her now, of course, but that feels a little too much like tempting fate. Later, he decides, telling himself that his procrastination has nothing to do with being afraid of her answer.

When they finally arrive at the station, Lincoln looks at the surprisingly crowded platform, then at Michael. “What’s the plan?”

Kellerman smiles. “You leave that to me.”

“No offence,” Michael tells him dryly, “but I don’t think so.”

The other man lifts his eyebrows. “Anyone would think you didn’t trust me.”

“They’d be right.”

Kellerman returns his gaze with studied nonchalance, then pulls his FBI identification out of his back pocket. “I’ll break it down so we’re all on the same page, shall I?” he asks in a sing-song voice, as though Michael is five years old. “I’m the FBI agent, and you’re my prisoner.” He glances at Lincoln and Sara in turn. “Once we’re on board in our nice private carriage, you two will be joining us.”

Michael nods reluctantly, knowing it’s the best chance they’ve got, hating that agreeing makes it appear as though Kellerman is calling the shots. Unfortunately, right here and now, they have no other choice. “Fine.”

As he takes a step towards Kellerman, Sara curls her fingers into the cuff of his sweatshirt, not taking his hand but not letting him go, either. “Be careful,” she says quietly, not looking at him, and it’s all he can do not to thread his fingers through hers.

“I will.”

“Very touching.” Michael turns to see Kellerman watching them with undisguised scorn. “While we’re young?” Shrugging out of his jacket, he gestures to Michael to come closer. “Link your hands together.”

Michael does as he asks, then Kellerman drapes his jacket over the cradle of Michael’s linked hands. “Voila.” His smile is mocking. “Instant handcuffs.”

“I’m impressed.”

Kellerman tilts his head to one side, still smiling, and Michael wants nothing more than to punch it right off his mouth. “Of course you are.”

~*~

The stationmaster stares at Kellerman, looking remarkably composed for a man who’s just been informed he’s about to have a captured felon boarding one of his trains. “What’s he in for?”

Kellerman sighs loudly. “Killing people?”

“Uh, I’ll see what I can do.” The stationmaster’s composure is replaced by panic in the blink of an eye, and Michael is shoved right back to the First Bank of Chicago and the female teller whose voice shook with fear, to Fox River and Sara looking at him as though she didn’t recognise him, Henry Pope’s stricken expression as he realised just how thoroughly his trust had been betrayed.

I’m not going to hurt you, he wants to tell the man. He doesn’t, of course.

Kellerman’s plan works. Five minutes later he and Michael are climbing into a now empty carriage, and Michael tries not to think that this is going to be one favour the other man won’t hesitate to call in. Completely ignoring Kellerman's wordless direction as to where he is to sit, he chooses a window seat in the middle of the carriage. From there he sees Lincoln and Sara through the glass, sitting together on a metal bench, and even from this distance he can see that Lincoln is doing all the talking. He half-smiles at the thought of his brother being the chatty one in any situation, then Kellerman is moving towards the rear door of the carriage. “Time to get the kids, I guess.”

Michael looks down at the jacket that is still covering his hands, and the thought of having a piece of Kellerman’s clothing touching him suddenly makes his skin crawl. He tosses it at the other man as he passes, and the metal zipper hits the middle of his chest with satisfying force. Kellerman’s steady stride misses a step, then he rolls his eyes and keeps walking. Michael sprawls in his seat, feeling unrepentantly churlish. He hears Kellerman whistle – like he’s calling a stray dog, Michael thinks darkly – then Lincoln is walking down the centre aisle and dropping into a window seat at the end of the carriage.

He’s oddly pleased when Sara sinks into the seat opposite him, her knee bumping against his. Perhaps it would be safer if she sat away from him, out of sight, but he’s not about to suggest it. She gives him a quick smile when he catches her eye. “Do you want your cap back?”

He grins. “No, keep it. Looks better on you.” A faint hint of pink colours her face, then she tugs the brim of the cap lower over her eyes and slouches down in her seat.

Time drags. The heat of the sun is diffused by the thick windows, turning it into a pleasant wash of warmth that induces drowsiness. At the other end of the carriage, Lincoln is dozing, his cap tilted back on his head. Michael spends the time either watching the scenery through the window or watching Sara. It worries him how often her gaze strays to Kellerman, how her expression becomes remote and hardened every time she looks at him. Her face softens whenever Michael catches her gaze, but he can feel the tension in her, and once again wonders if the price of Kellerman’s help is too high. He thinks of everything she told him about that hotel room in Broken Arrow, everything Kellerman had done to her, and he begins counting down the hours until they can part company with their uninvited travel companion.

Four hours into their journey, Sara shifts in her seat restlessly, then leans forward to whisper his name. “Michael? Do you know where I could get some water?”

He considers the question for a few seconds, then nods. “I think there’s a bathroom downstairs.” She moves as if she’s about to stand, but he puts his hand on her knee, wondering just when he’d reached the point of using any small excuse to touch her. “I’ll go check.” He stretches each leg as he stands, slightly numb from sitting in the one spot for so long, then makes his way down the aisle. Kellerman doesn’t look at him as he passes, but Michael makes a point of glancing over his shoulder at Lincoln. His brother may look as though he’s dozing, but three years in Fox River makes a man a very light sleeper.

Michael is at the bottom of the internal stairs when he remembers that not only are there two bottles of water in the duffle bag under his seat, but that Sara actually packed them only a few hour ago. He thinks of the way she’s been looking at Kellerman, the tension that’s been literally humming through her, and his trip to the bathroom suddenly makes terrible sense.

He turns around, taking two steps at a time, angry with himself for being so easily distracted. He flings open the carriage door to find his fears come to life in a grim tableau. Kellerman is slumped in his seat, one leg sticking awkwardly out into the aisle. Sara is standing behind him, one hand digging into the artery just below his jaw, the other clawing at the burn on his chest. Kellerman’s hands are wrapped tightly around her wrists, his face white with pain.

“How’s that burn, Paul?” Her jaw clenches as she digs her fingernails into his chest, her dark eyes narrowed with anger. “Still tender, I bet.”

“Sara!” He shouts her name the same time Lincoln does, the word echoing around the carriage. Darting forward, he wraps his arms around her, pulling her backwards as Lincoln pulls her hands away from Kellerman’s neck. She writhes in his arms, her whole body rigid with fury, her feet scrambling to find purchase as she fights to get away from him.

Tightening his arms around her, he puts his mouth to her ear, desperately in an attempt to cut through the red haze he knows has gripped her. “Settle down!”

Kellerman is standing now, one hand to his throat. “Crazy bitch!” he mutters, but he makes no move towards her. Lincoln releases his grip on Kellerman’s arm, but hovers between the two separated combatants. Kellerman shakes his head, a half-smile touching his lips, then he lunges across the back of his seat, his eyes wide with furious intent.

Michael jerks Sara backwards as his brother drops his shoulder and brings Kellerman’s attack to an abrupt standstill. Thwarted, Kellerman stares at Sara over Lincoln’s shoulder, looking at her as though he’s trying to work out the best way to slit her throat without getting blood on his jacket. “If she tries that again-”

One arm still curled tightly around Sara’s waist – he can feel the violent hammering of her heart against his chest - Michael stares at him. “You’ll do what?”

Kellerman doesn’t answer him. Instead he glances down at the bloody streaks now seeping through his shirt, then up at Sara with mocking disbelief. “I think you need to work on your bedside manner, doctor.”

“We all do what we have to do, Paul,” she practically snarls at him, then she’s pulling away from Michael and slamming the car door behind her, vanishing down the stairs that lead to the bathroom. Michael stands helpless in the middle of the aisle, torn between following her and wrapping his hands around Kellerman’s throat and taking over where she left off.

In the end, he does neither. He watches in silence as Lincoln snarlingly tells Kellerman to keep to his side of the car, then moves to sit next to his brother. “What the hell just happened?”

Lincoln levels a glare across the car towards Kellerman, then leans closer to Michael, keeping his voice low. “Crazy stuff. The Doc got up to stretch her legs and he got up too. Said something to her when she went past him and she kicked him, stuck her boot right into the knee of his bad leg.” He suddenly grins, as if replaying the sight in his head, and Michael can’t help wishing he’d been there to witness it himself. “He went down like a sack of potatoes, and she went for him.” He looks at Michael. “Right about then was when you came in.”

Michael silently digests this information. He doesn’t tell Lincoln that he suspects Sara wasn’t any more interested in stretching her legs than she needed Michael to find some water for her. Perhaps it should be difficult to reconcile the Sara Tancredi he knows with the woman he’s just seen deliberating causing pain to another human being, but they’ve all done things they’d never thought they’d have to do. “Have you checked in with Jane?”

Lincoln raises his eyebrows at the abrupt change in subject, but simply nods. “Yeah. Told her what happened with the car and that we’re en route. I’ll call again in two hours.”

“Good.” Michael tries and fails not to look towards the stairs down which in which Sara had disappeared, and he hears his brother sigh.

“Just go after her, man.”

“You sure?” Michael puts his hands on the armrests of his seat, but he doesn’t rise to his feet. In his head, he’s already halfway down those stairs, but he didn’t plan on leaving his brother alone with Kellerman any time soon. Lincoln gives him an exasperated look, and it’s all the encouragement he needs.

It’s not hard to guess where Sara has gone. Feeling a hollow sense of déjà vu – he’s beginning to think they’re doomed to have every important conversation of their lives in a bathroom – he knocks quietly on the door to the washroom. “Sara?”

There’s silence for what feels like a very long time, then finally he hears her voice. “It’s open.”

She’s sitting on the bathroom vanity, her back against the mirror, looking as lost as he’s ever seen her. His hand literally itch with the urge to touch her, comfort her, but he keeps his distance, shutting the door behind him and leaning against the wall a few feet away from her. If nothing else, he’s learned when to push her and when to let her find her own way.

“You okay?”

“Three weeks ago I was a doctor, Michael.” She stares at him, her eyes glittering, then shakes her head in despair. “And not three minutes ago, I would have happily taken a man’s life.”

Oh, Sara. “You can get that back. All of it.” If it took him the rest of his life, he would make sure he was telling her the truth.

“I wish I could believe that.” She takes a deep breath and looks up at him, a bleakness in her eyes that almost breaks his heart. “First do no harm,” she says in a broken whisper. “I look at Kellerman and I want to hurt him.” She closes her eyes. “He was right, Michael. Doctors are supposed to heal, not wound.”

“He gave you no choice.”

She shakes her head. “Maybe the first time, but there’s no excuse for what I just did.”

“What did he say to you upstairs?”

She looks away, and he sees her fingers grip the edge of the vanity. “That he couldn’t believe I was stupid enough to keep risking my life for two people who only ever needed me because of my last name.”

Michael stares at her, a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. “You didn’t believe him?” He doesn’t mean for it to sound like a question, as though he’s not sure of her answer, but suddenly it is a question and maybe he’s not too sure of anything, not anymore.

“Of course not,” she says, perhaps a shade too quickly. “What I did up there, that wasn’t about you.” She takes another deep breath and lifts her eyes to his, meeting his gaze steadily. “I still can’t believe all this has happened.”

He takes a step closer to her. “We get to Washington, we find that tape, we can end this thing.”

She nods, but it’s an almost absentminded gesture. “I need to find the people who killed my dad, Michael.”

“We’ll find them,” he tells her, willing her to believe it, willing himself to believe it.

Her gaze drops, and she stares down at her hands for a long moment. “I, uh, also need to tell you something.”

He sits beside her, careful to leave an inch or two of space between them. There’s a sudden air of quiet determination about her, and again, he knows he needs to let her set the pace. “Sure.”

She opens her mouth, but the only sound that comes out is a breathy, nervous laugh. “I normally wouldn’t, uh -” She hesitates, then closes her eyes, as if that might help her say the words. “The ironic thing is that it’s taken losing my dad for me to realise that I need to- ” She’s flushed now, looking more embarrassed than he’s ever seen her, and a nervous tension begins to coil in the pit of his stomach. “The first thing they tell you when you take the job -” she breaks off yet again, clearing her throat, her head bowing even lower, her voice so soft he has to strain to hear her, “is never fall in love with an inmate.”

He stares at her, almost afraid to believe what she’s just told him. Finally, she looks up at him shyly, expectantly, her heart in her eyes, and he knows the truth of her words. He lifts his hand to her face, no more able to stop himself from leaning forward and kissing her than he could ever stop himself when it came to her.

The kiss is soft and sweet, her lips warm and tender against his. Her lips part, her tongue tangling lazily with his, letting him taste toothpaste and honey and grape-flavoured gum, all of which taste much better than he remembers. It’s a supple, languid exploration that gently warms his blood and tightens his skin, an echo of the kiss they’d shared at the safe house in Gila. This time, though, he wants so much more than a tender affirmation, and he thinks she does, too.

He awkwardly gets to his feet - he can’t bear to stop kissing her, even for the briefest second - bumping her knee with his hip as he moves to stand in front of her. She murmurs something against his mouth, but the words are lost, melting in the heat of a kiss that is slowly becoming less soft and sweet, and something infinitely more dangerous.

He puts his hands on her knees, telling himself it’s for balance aboard the swaying train – but all he can think about is the heat of her skin through the thin material of her sweatpants, her muscles flexing under his touch. He remembers holding her in his arms as they sat huddled in the bottom of a dripping shower stall. He remembers endless legs and damp, smooth skin, the swell of her hips and the high thrust of her breasts barely covered by wet cotton. He remembers lying on a threadbare blanket, his hands and mouth learning the secrets of her body in the darkness, wishing only that he could see her face clearly.

He wants to tell himself that they can’t do this here, not now, but his hands are already sliding around to her back, fisting through her hair and his tongue is deep in her mouth, her breasts are pressed against his chest and he’s abruptly, painfully hard, so hard that he doesn’t know how there’s enough blood to keep his heart beating.

He lifts his head, trying to drag enough air into his lungs to cool his blood, then Sara is wrapping her arms around his neck, her thighs tightly gripping his hips and they’re frantically kissing as though it’s for the first and last time. She whispers his name, her hands sliding down his stomach, her fingers hooking into the waistband of his khakis with deliberate intent.

Oh, my God.

He’s vaguely aware that the train is following a sharp curve in the track, but the distant squeal of metal on metal gives little warning of the carriage’s sudden lurch. He stumbles against her, and her heels instantly dig into the backs of his knees, pulling him closer until there’s no space between them. The heavy ache of his erection presses hard against the soft warmth between her legs, making him shudder, making him want to tear clothing and zippers and buttons, making him want to press his fingers against all that smooth, white skin, hard enough to leave a mark, his mark.

The rhythmic sound of the train seems to speed up, keeping the beat with his pounding heart. Desperately swimming against the rising tide of hunger, he tears his mouth away from hers, hears himself say the words of a more sensible man. “Maybe we should-”

“Please, Michael.” She murmurs his name, a sigh that skims across his mouth, then she’s running her hands down his chest and underneath his shirt and around to his back. “I need this.” She turns her head, biting the corded muscle in the crook of his neck, her hands sliding downward to cup his bottom, trying to pull him even closer. “I need you.”

He swears vividly in his head, knowing he’s not going to win this battle, knowing that he doesn’t want to win it. He kisses her, hard and deep, lust clawing at his gut as his hands slide over her thighs and her stomach and higher until he’s cupping her breasts in faintly trembling hands. Her nipples tighten at his touch, rising up hard against the softness of her shirt and the skin of his palms, her gasp of pleasure whispering across his tongue as she twists restlessly in his arms.

“Sara -” The guttural sigh rises up in his throat, then she kisses him, stealing his voice and his breath and the will to deny her anything. His hands are underneath her shirt, touching the soft swell of her breasts, warm flesh barely covered by smooth cotton. The smell of her fills his head and he suddenly wants to drop to his knees before her, peel down those damned trackpants and kiss the pale length of her thighs before burying his face in soft, damp curls and hot flesh, inhaling the scent of her, kissing her there, right there, his mouth filling with the heady taste of heat and salt and desire.

But that’s something he wants to savour, something he wants to keep inside his head until they have time, more time, all the time in the world, with clean white sheets and heated skin washed by a cool breeze through a window they’re not afraid to leave open. So he instead slides his mouth along the curve of her jaw, then the hollow of her throat where her pulse beats wildly beneath his tongue. He hazily rues wasting a perfectly good bed the night before, then he doesn’t care about beds or clean sheets because his hand is dipping between her legs and the heat of her burns his palms through two layers of clothing. His own pulse is hammering - pounding through his head, his heart, his cock – as he presses two fingers against her, touching her the way he remembers she likes to be touched, the way he’d touched her in the darkness, the scent of earth and grass and sex all around them.

His memory serves him well. She gasps, her hips almost lifting off the bench as she arches against his hand, then she’s fumbling with the drawstring of her trackpants, her breath hot against his neck as she leans into him. He puts his hands over hers, sliding his fingers between cool fabric and warm skin, tugging and pulling until the fabric begins to slide over the swell of her hips. Muttering something under breath that sounds very much like, “Wait, let me just -”, Sara curls her arms around his neck, lifting herself up off the vanity, burying her face against his shoulder as he hooks his thumbs over elastic, tugging down both her underwear and the exercise pants with shaking hands.

Glancing into the mirror behind her, he sees his hands, dark against the pale skin of her delicately curved bottom, and feels the blood leave his brain and head south with a vengeance. He tears his gaze away from their reflection, only to be overwhelmed by the heart-stopping sight of the milky white skin of her thighs, the dark smudge of curls between her legs. The urge to drop to his knees returns ten-fold, but then she’s unzipping his trousers and sliding her hand inside his boxers, wrapping her warm fingers around him. He bites back a groan as he arches into her touch, a tremor running up the backs of his legs, gnawing at the base of his spine, sliding through his gut.

Between them, they manage to do away with the last barrier between them, their hands clumsy with urgency. He should feel ridiculous, he thinks, hiding out in a public bathroom, bare-assed with his trousers around his knees, struck dumb at the mere sight of bare female flesh. But it’s her and it’s them and his hunger for her outweighs any lingering awkwardness.

He doesn’t bother to ask her about protection. He knows there’s a second condom buried in the depths of the handbag on the vanity beside her – he’d seen it the night they used the first one, filing it away in the more hopeful part of his brain. He fumbles with the foil packet, his fingertips suddenly damp with sweat, then her hands are on him, helping him, guiding him, pulling him into her. He watches her face as his body sinks into the tight, lush heat of hers, and he thinks his heart might burst.

“God, Sara -”

She murmurs his name before she kisses him, fierce and hungry and demanding, then they don’t speak. They simply cling to each other, riding out the storm, pushing each other to the brink with an ease that makes his chest burn with the simple task of breathing. The taste of her, the feel of her, warm and eager and alive in his arms – it flows over him like a flash fire, like boiling water being poured over him, blistering his skin, burning him from the inside out.

The back of his shirt is soon damp with sweat, sticking to his skin, and he tastes the salt on the pale length of her throat. Her hands are on his hips, urging him on, while his hands are pushing up her shirt, stroking her belly and her breasts. He desperately wishes she was naked in his arms, naked against him, but his hands eagerly fill in the gaps in his visual catalogue, and her soft gasps of pleasure are more than enough to make him forget his dream of white sheets and cool breezes.

It doesn’t take long for either of them, and soon his hands are on her knees, pushing them up, opening her up to him, thrusting deeper and harder and she’s crying out, her head falling back, her fingernails digging into his shoulders. “God, Michael, I can’t -”

“Yes, you can.” Kissing her hard, he slides his hand between them, one long finger gliding over the slick heat of her, seeking, finding, teasing. Gasping into his mouth, she lifts herself up against him, pushing back against his hand, his body. He twitches his fingers and she bites at his bottom lip, the metallic tang of his blood mingling with the taste of her mouth. He closes his eyes, praying for the strength to endure, then she begins to shudder against him, the silken clasp of her body shivering around him.

Pulling her closer, he gives up, gives in, losing and finding himself in the same heartbeat. Her name falls from his lips as he comes, his whole body arching, his flesh pulsing hotly deep inside her. Her hands cradling his face, she kisses him breathlessly, swallowing his words and his rough groan of release. The floor beneath him shifts once more – maybe it’s the train, maybe it’s not – and he braces his hand flat against the mirror behind her for support, afraid his legs might suddenly collapse beneath him.

“One day,” she murmurs some time later, her damp forehead pressed against his, one hand sliding under his shirt to stroke his back, “we’ll have to try doing this in a bed.”

“Or take longer than five minutes,” he says ruefully, tugging her shirt into some kind of respectability, letting his thumbs brush the underside of her breasts, making her shiver.

She lifts her head and smiles into his eyes, her voice still wispy with the echo of passion. “I like the sound of that.”

His throat tightens. Leaning forward, he kisses her softly, once again tasting a delicate potpourri of grape-flavoured gum, honey and her, dark and sweet and addictive. Lifting his head reluctantly, he touches her face, letting his fingertips trace the curve of her cheek, her sweat-dampened temple. “It’s a date.”

An air of bashfulness seems to come over her as they tidy themselves up – there really is no subtle way to dispose of a condom, he thinks wryly - and he wonders if she’s always shy afterwards. The thought of finding out for himself, preferably over a very long period of time, makes his mouth curve in a slow smile, and she catches his eye. “What?”

He briefly debates sharing his thoughts, if only to see that intriguing blush creep over her pale skin, but he decides to leave it alone for now. “Nothing,” he tells her, pressing a quick kiss to the top of her head. He’d like nothing more than to stay in this room and pretend they’re a normal couple who’ve simply sneaked away for a few moment’s privacy, but he knows they can’t. Not when Lincoln is having to deal with whatever bullshit Kellerman might be spinning him. “Maybe we should get back upstairs?”

Something that looks a lot like disappointment flashes in her eyes, but she nods readily enough. “I’ll be there in a minute.” The message is unspoken but unmistakable, and he hastily gives her some space.

Lincoln gives him a lingering look when he returns to the carriage, and Michael flushes, feeling as though the events of the last fifteen minutes are tattooed on his forehead. His brother says nothing as he quirks one eyebrow, but his knowing smirk speaks volumes. Michael doesn’t bother looking at Kellerman.

Sara reappears a few minutes later, her face faintly glowing and her gaze not quite meeting his. She slides into the seat diagonally across from him, and he leans forward, trying to catch her eyes with his. “You okay?”

She nods, but the full curve of her mouth is tight with an emotion at which he can’t even begin to guess. “I’m good.” Putting her feet up on the chair beside him, she crosses her arms over her chest and closes her eyes, obviously intent on resting. Michael stares at her, puzzled by her apparent change in mood, then he knows and instantly berates himself for being an oblivious fool.

The first thing they tell you when you take the job is never fall in love with an inmate.

She had talked of love, laid her heart bare for him to see. He had loved her with his body, but not with his words, and while he can’t believe she’d still have any doubts as to how he feels about her, he’s not prepared to take that chance. He’s been waiting for the perfect moment, he realises suddenly, but he knows now that the perfect moment may never come.

He glances over his shoulder. Kellerman is staring out the window. Lincoln is dozing once more. Leaning forward, he touches Sara gently on the arm, letting his hand linger. “Sara?” She opens her eyes, but makes no move to unfold her arms, her defensive body language screamingly obvious. He glances around the carriage once more, then slides his hand along her arm until his fingers find the soft skin of her wrist.

She looks at him, saying nothing, but he sees the distance receding from her dark eyes, feel the skip of her pulse beneath his fingertips. He swallows hard, trying to remember the last time he’d said these particular words to anyone outside his family, trying to remember the last time he’d wanted to say them to anyone outside his family. Over his shoulder he hears Lincoln coughing, the sound of Kellerman getting to his feet and restlessly pacing the aisle, and he knows that their private moment is gone, snatched away like so many other moments between them.

“We’ll be making a stop in La Junta in about five minutes,” Kellerman announces from the other end of the carriage. “Could we assume our positions, do you think?”

Michael ignores him. “About before -” he says quietly, holding Sara’s gaze with his, not letting her look away. He slides his hand into hers, the soft skin of her palm warm against his fingertips. “Me too.”

It’s completely inadequate, but it’s the best he can do with two pairs of ears listening to them. Her mouth falls open, just a little, her eyelids fluttering as she blinks slowly once, then twice. He holds his breath, suddenly afraid he’d somehow misconstrued her words, then she gives him a smile as warm as the sun streaming through the window.

“Once again, how about it, kids?” Kellerman snaps, but the words barely out of his mouth before Lincoln is talking right over the top of him.

“How about shutting the fuck up, jackass?”

Michael looks at Sara, once again feeling the sudden and ridiculous urge to grin. She shakes her head, her mouth twitching with the hint of a smile, patting him on the knee as she gets to her feet and moves to sit towards the back of the carriage. Michael watches her as she walks away, unable to stop himself studying the gentle sway of her hips, then Kellerman’s jacket is unceremoniously flung into his face.

“Show time, Scofield.”

Michael looks up at Kellerman, once again counting down the hours until they can part company. “Sure thing,” he mutters, draping the jacket over his supposedly cuffed hands. “Boss,” he adds on a sudden perverse whim he doesn’t bother to resist.

Kellerman blinks, then drops into Sara’s vacated seat with a decided air of annoyance. “See this? This is why I prefer to work alone.”

“Really?” Michael studies the red marks on Kellerman’s throat, the streaks of blood on his shirt front, then gives the other man his most insincere smile, the smile he once kept exclusively for Brad Bellick. “I can’t imagine why.”


~*~


Only a few days ago, Michael had decided that driving for hours across the country was unbearably tedious. It takes just over twenty-four hours to travel from Albuquerque to Chicago by train, and he knows now that he will never complain about a long car journey ever again. In other circumstances, perhaps he may have even enjoyed such a leisurely train ride, appreciated the ever-changing scenery, the well-appointed dining car and that old-fashioned sense of adventure without having to leave his air-conditioned comfort. Maybe some day, Michael thinks darkly as he does his best to stretch the stiffness out of his back, but not today.

The train weaves its way through five different states, taking them from early morning through to evening, then through the long night. After a quick consensus that trips to the dining car would be too risky, Sara digs into Michael’s battered duffle bag every few hours. She doles out their rapidly dwindling stash of snack food - that first hotel room seems like a thousand years ago now - and once again Michael is astounded at her resilience as she tosses a packet of chips and a candy bar to her former kidnapper. Granted, from a certain angle it may have looked as though she was aiming for Kellerman’s head, but Michael decides to give her the benefit of the doubt. She’s still furious - he sees it in her eyes and the stiff lines of her posture – but it’s as though her outburst has helped her push it right down, help her bear to be in the same room without giving in to her anger.

The conductor knocks on the connecting door every few hours - causing a hasty reconfiguration of passenger positions each time – anxiously checking to see if Kellerman ‘needs anything’. After the third visit, Kellerman barely opens the door an inch. “Look, I appreciate your concern, but this isn’t going to work. I need to focus 110% on my prisoner, and I can’t do that when you keep coming in here distracting me.”

The other man apologises, his affronted gaze resting on Michael as though having a convicted felon on his respectable train is a personal insult. “I’m sorry, sir, I just wanted to make sure all was well.”

Kellerman smiles warmly. “It is. Once we’re in Chicago, we’ll be off your hands and you’ll have a good story to tell all your friends.”

“Of course.” The conductor all but tips his cap, and Michael feels the sudden urge to roll his eyes. It’s all too easy to see how Kellerman had charmed Sara, even if he had to resort to the cliché of new gay best friend to do it, and the thought of what might had happened if they hadn’t managed to pull her out of that Chicago alleyway still makes his stomach churn.

Sometime in the early afternoon, Kellerman produces a deck of cards, lobbing them to Lincoln without a word. The three of them – Kellerman makes no move to join them, a wise decision as far as Michael’s concerned – play hand after hand of desultory gin rummy. Michael catches his brother’s eye over the top of his dealt hand several times, and he knows he’s not the only one thinking of the last time they’d played cards. It’s hard to believe that only a few months have passed since he and Vee were sitting in the visitation room at Fox River, waiting for Lincoln to be taken away from them.

Even harder to make himself believe that Vee is gone.

Michael’s fingers tighten on the plastic coated playing cards in his grip as every memory he has of Veronica – the good, the bad and everything in between – is suddenly floods into his head, making his throat feel tight and hot, making him feel like he can’t breathe. Shit. He hasn’t let himself say her name, hasn’t pushed Lincoln to talk about her, and now he knows why, because just thinking about her makes him want to smash his fist through the nearest wall, and he can’t begin to fathom how Lincoln must feel.

As if his thoughts have kept pace with Michael’s, his brother slaps his cards down on the seat beside him and gets to his feet. “I’m out.” He walks quickly down the aisle towards the bathroom, his head bowed, his wide shoulders slumped, and Michael knows better than to go after him.

The numbers and painted faces on the cards in his hand begin to blur. He sucks in a sharp breath, blinking away the urge to let himself crumble. He feels the touch of Sara’s hand on his arm, the soft press of her knee against his. “This is never really going to be over, is it?”

Her voice is calm, but in her eyes he sees a reflection of his own grief, his own sorrow. He puts his hand over hers - the antique silver ring on her finger presses into his palm, a foreign yet familiar touch - and reminds himself of his vow to always tell her the truth. “I don’t know.”

~*~

Some time after midnight, Sara is asleep in the seat beside him, one long leg curled up underneath her, her head lolling on his shoulder. He cannot resist the impulse to turn his head, letting his lips brush her forehead. The lingering scent of lemon soap on her skin, instantly takes him back to the bathroom downstairs, to the feel of her, the taste of her, the sound of her breathing his name as her control shattered into pieces. His whole body tightens, and it’s all he can do not to slide his arm around her shoulders, thread his hands through the soft cloud of auburn hair -

Damn it. He closes his eyes, telling himself that this is not helping, that he needs to stay focused and he can’t do that if he’s thinking with anything other than his head. Gently easing himself away from her, he makes sure that her head is now pillowed on the head rest, then gets to his feet, making his way down the aisle towards his brother.

“You okay?”

Lincoln is staring out the window at the darkness. He hasn’t spoken more than half a dozen words since he’d walked away from their card game, and just looking at him makes Michael’s heart ache. They both have to keep moving forward, not let themselves get themselves get trapped in the mire of their mistakes, but that’s easier said than done.

Lincoln doesn’t look at him as he speaks. “What if this is nothing more than wild goose chase? What if all we find is packet of imported tea leaves?”

Michael slides into the seat across the aisle. “Then we’ll think of something else.”

Lincoln turns his head, his expression one Michael remembers all too well from their childhood, an ‘are you for real?’ look that manages to be affectionate and pissed off at the same time. “You never give up, do you?”

Feeling strangely embarrassed, Michael shrugs. “I like to finish what I start.”

Lincoln glances towards the other end of the carriage, towards Sara. “So I’ve noticed.” There’s the faintest hint of resentment in his voice, and Michael feels himself flush.

“I’m sorry.”

His brother frowns. “Why?”

“That Sara is here and Veronica isn’t.” The words – the ones that normally stay safely in his head – come out of his mouth in a thoughtless rush before he can stop them. He wants to bite his tongue but it’s too late, the words are out there now and Lincoln’s face is carved from stone, his eyes dark with grief.

“Not your fault.”

Michael sucks in a deep breath, once again feeling that same painful pressure across his chest. “Isn’t it?”

“Don’t do this, Michael.” Lincoln shakes his head, his words rough and sharp. “What’s done is done and there’s not a fucking thing we can do to change any of it.” There’s a finality in his tone that tells Michael that the discussion is over, and Michael can’t help but feel relieved. “Look, if this doesn’t work out -” Lincoln begins hesitantly, glancing again towards the front of the carriage.

“It will.”

“In case it doesn’t,” his brother insists, staring at him as though he might disappear at any second. “Thank you.”

There’s a lump in Michael’s throat the size of a fist. He remembers their desperate flight through the woods surrounding Fox River, the dogs at their heels, adrenalin pumping through his blood like a drug. He remembers Lincoln grabbing his arm, wasting time they didn’t have to spare, gasping out almost the same exact words.

Back then, Michael had cut him off, telling him it was okay, and then they were running again, fear clawing at their backs. It feels good to actually hear the words, much better than he thought it would. Despite the darkness of his thoughts, he smiles, suddenly feeling as though anything might be possible. “Any time.”


~*~

~*~



“Look, if this doesn’t work out -” Lincoln begins hesitantly, glancing again towards the front of the carriage.

“It will.”

“In case it doesn’t,” his brother insists, staring at him as though he might disappear at any second. “Thank you.”

There’s a lump in Michael’s throat the size of a fist. He remembers their desperate flight through the woods surrounding Fox River, the dogs at their heels, adrenalin pumping through his blood like a drug. He remembers Lincoln grabbing his arm, wasting time they didn’t have to spare, gasping out almost the same exact words.

Back then, Michael had cut him off, telling him it was okay, and then they were running again, fear clawing at their backs. It feels good to actually hear the words, much better than he thought it would. Despite the darkness of his thoughts, he smiles, suddenly feeling as though anything might be possible. “Any time.”


~*~


As the train crawls – or so it seems – through the countryside, he and Lincoln take turns dozing, neither of them willing to leave Sara alone with Kellerman. Although, Michael thinks as he looks across the carriage at the dried blood on the front of Kellerman’s shirt, sometimes he wonders just who it is that they’re protecting.

Sometime around five a.m., Kellerman attracts the attention of the conductor and requests a newspaper and two coffees. Once again, the man looks at Michael as though he’s already planning to have this particular carriage exorcised once it’s empty, then tells Kellerman he’ll see what he can do. Ten minutes later, he returns with two takeaway coffee containers and a folded newspaper, for which he is profusely thanked. After a final dark glare in Michael’s direction, he leaves, perhaps daydreaming of the Presidential citation he’ll receive as a reward for services rendered to the FBI.

Kellerman strolls down the aisle, newspaper tucked under one arm and a coffee in each hand, his gaze shifting from Michael to the seat behind him where Sara is slouching out of sight, and back again. For a moment, Michael thinks he's going to walk right past them, still clutching both coffees, then his pace slows. With an air of great reluctance, he finally hands one of the coffees to Michael with a sarcastic, “I’m sure you two won’t mind sharing,” and strolls back to his self-appointed position at the end of the carriage.

On any other day, Michael would rather go thirsty than drink anything given to him by Paul Kellerman. But it’s been a long night, and he’s not the only one feeling it. Lincoln is still stretched out on the floor at the front of the carriage and there are dark smudges beneath Sara’s eyes. “No cream and sugar,” he warns quietly as he catches her gaze. “Could be dangerous.”

She smiles at the deliberate invocation of their last conversation on this subject, but her eyes are tired as she throws a longing glance at the cardboard cup in his hand. “I’m prepared to risk it.”

Feeling a sense of déjà vu, he hands her the coffee over the back of his seat. “After you.”

Throughout the night and early hours of the morning, Lincoln has contacted Jane every two hours, just as they’d agreed before leaving Gila. Unused to being on the periphery of a plan, Michael had found himself unconsciously eavesdropping, but it was difficult to glean much information from Lincoln’s less-than-effusive side of the conversation.

Two hours out of Chicago, Kellerman vanishes downstairs to the bathroom, and Lincoln seizes the rare chance to contact Jane without fear of being overheard. When Jane answers, he first asks - as he always does - after LJ, and this time he smiles at the answer. “Thank you,” he tells Jane, the relief in his voice obvious. “Tell him I love him, okay?” He darts a faintly embarrassed glance at Michael, then looks at the connecting door through which Kellerman had disappeared. “We’re due in Chicago in a couple of hours, then taking the connecting train to Washington.” Michael watches as his brother listens intently. “No, he doesn’t know.” Lincoln listens for another moment, then frowns. “And what do you suggest we do with him?”

Michael and Sara exchange a glance, and Michael assumes – correctly, it later turns out – that Jane is instructing Lincoln to part company with Paul Kellerman, as least while they attempt to retrieve the message left by Sara’s father. It’s a sentiment he shares, although it appears that Jane is leaving the logistics of such a course of action in their hands.

As Jane talks, Lincoln turns his head away to once again stare out the window. “We’d just better hope that this doesn’t come back to bite us in the ass.” Another long silence. “Sure.” He hands the phone to Michael. “She wants to speak to you.” Michael lifts one eyebrow at his brother, but Lincoln merely nods towards the phone.

“Jane?”

“Michael. I need to give you the address of a safe house in Washington. I gave this information to Lincoln during our last conversation,” Jane announces in her usual clear, clipped voice, “but I feel it would be prudent for you to know in case -”

“In case we get separated,” he says flatly.

“Yes.”

He hesitates. Normally, he'd simply memorize whatever it was she was about to tell him, but he has the sudden and inexplicable impulse to jot it down. “Give me a second.” He looks at Sara. “Pen and paper?” A few seconds’ worth of digging in her handbag, she hands him the back of a torn envelope and a ballpoint pen. Not for the first time, Michael recalls her admission of being a packrat – one that he didn’t believe at the time – and gives her a quick smile, then listens to Jane as she rattles off a Washington address. He’s not familiar with the area – or the city itself, for that matter - but he knows Sara won’t have any trouble guiding them. “You’re there now?”

“Yes. We needed a secure position from which to coordinate the retrieval. This apartment is less than two blocks from the target.” There’s a slight pause, then she continues, her tone more gentle than usual. “It appears as though we are going to have to involve Doctor Tancredi more than we first thought.”

He frowns. “What exactly do you mean?”

“Our intel indicates that the retrieval point is a family business that has been under the same ownership for the last twenty-five years. Governor Tancredi would have chosen it to ensure that his daughter, and only his daughter, would be able to access the information he left for her.”

It’s nothing he hasn’t already considered, but his stomach still twists itself into a hard knot at the thought of deliberately putting Sara in harm’s way. Careful not to look at her – he suspects she’s learned to read his face as well as he’s learned to read hers – he asks Jane one last question. “Any word on Steadman?”

“No,” she tells him bluntly, managing to convey a wealth of disappointment with that one word. “If Paul Kellerman does actually know where he is, then we still need him.”

“Damn it.”

“I agree.” He hears her murmur something in an undertone to someone in the background at her end, then adds, “Tell Lincoln I’ll speak to him again in two hours’ time.”

Michael hands the phone back to his brother. “She wants us to keep Kellerman away from the rendezvous point,” he tells Sara, whose eyes widen with anxiety.

“Any suggestions on how to do that?”

Michael looks at them both in turn. “We split up once we hit Washington, and one of us makes sure he’s kept busy.” A ripple of unease flickers across Sara’s face, and he hastens to reassure her. “Not you,” he tells her firmly, and she visibly relaxes.

“Thank you.”

“Our best chance will probably be as soon as we get off the train in Washington,” Michael muses quietly, then looks at his brother. “One of us needs to convince Kellerman to find a safe place to hole up for a few hours.”

“I’ll do it,” Lincoln announces gruffly, and Michael tosses him a grateful glance.

“You sure?”

His brother smirks. “Trust me, it will be my pleasure to fuck up his plans as much as humanly possible.”


~*~


The tension in the carriage increases with every mile closer to Chicago. When the PA speaker over his head announces their approach to the station, Michael feels the familiar surge of adrenalin hit his bloodstream. Another step closer, another hurdle scaled, and this is all starting to feel almost too good to be true.

Kellerman gathers up his backpack and strides over to Michael’s seat, once again holding out his jacket. “Let’s do this, shall we?” Once Michael is back in ‘custody’, Kellerman studies the other two passengers, now sitting together in the back row of the carriage. “Reversal of how we came in. As soon as the train stops, you two hit the door. We’ll be right behind you.”

Sara simply stares at him, but Lincoln manages a curt nod. “Fine.”

As they step off the train, Michael can’t stop himself from tilting back his head and drinking in the familiar architecture of the old building. It’s almost surreal, being back in this city, standing in the middle of the train station he had rushed through so many times, knowing that this is no longer his city. He catches Sara’s eye – she and Lincoln are doing their best to blend into the crowd several feet away - and wonders if she’s feeling the same eerie sense of displacement. His cap finally pulled low over his eyes, Lincoln is standing with his arms folded, his gaze on the floor, but Michael doesn’t have to guess at what his brother is thinking. Having your old life flung in your face is never a pleasant sensation.

Kellerman pulls the same FBI routine that he used in Albuquerque and, to Michael’s relief and astonishment, it works a second time. Safely installed on a train bound for Washington, Michael has to fight the urge to pinch himself. It’s been so long since anything worked out the way he’d planned that it feels as though he’d be tempting the gods by actually allowing himself to feel optimistic. Then again, it’s not as though he hasn’t been doing exactly that ever since Lincoln first told him he was being transferred to Fox River.

“Seven hours from Chicago to Washington,” Lincoln mumbles as he drops into a seat a few rows behind them. “Remind me again why we didn’t just grab another car?”

It’s not really a question - Lincoln knows better than anyone how conspicuous driving a stolen car tends to make a person – but Michael answers it anyway. “Going under the radar might take longer, but it’s safer.”

Beside him, Sara stretches out her legs so that her feet end up halfway into the aisle. “What’s the next step?”

Michael glances across to where Kellerman has installed himself, then leans close enough to put his lips to Sara’s ear. “Jane’s given us an address in Washington. One of their organisation’s safe houses. We go there first, find out what they’ve managed to put in place, then pay a visit to your mother’s favourite place.”

She tilts back her head so that she can study his face. “Just me, or will I have an army in tow?”

He’s not sure why her intuition surprises him, but it does. “You won’t be alone,” he tells her firmly, even though they both know that it will be Jane and his father calling the shots. “I can promise you that much.”

She nods wearily, leaning back in her seat until her shoulder is pressed against his. “I just want this to be over.”

You and me both, Michael thinks but doesn’t say. “If we manage to pull this off, it will be.”

She regards him steadily. “Then what?”

“What do you mean?”

“If we manage to pull this off, if this tape turns out to be the political hot potato your father thinks it is and we somehow convince the President that it’s in her own best interests to pardon both of you.” She’s talking quietly now, her dark eyes never leaving his. “What happens then?”

So much for his decision to discuss this with her later, he thinks ruefully. “Right now, I’m thinking that somewhere with no phones and no television sounds pretty good.”

A smile tugs at the corners of her mouth. “A shack on a beach somewhere?”

“At first, maybe.” He reaches for her hand, letting his fingers slide through hers until her palm is flush against his. “I can’t really see myself as a long term shack dweller, to be honest.”

She smiles again, but says nothing, and he feels an odd lurch in the pit of his stomach. She’d once asked him to lay his cards on the table. Back then, it had been impossible. Now that he wants nothing more than to tell her everything that’s in his head and in his heart, they’re stuck on a train with a man none of them trust and armed with nothing more than the desperate hope of proving Lincoln’s innocence once and for all. To say that it’s the wrong time and place is something of an understatement, but maybe that makes it exactly the right time.

“I don’t want to lose you, Sara.”

Her eyes widen, then her hand tightens around his. “I know.”


~*~


“Kellerman’s visited the bathroom three times in the last hour,” Lincoln announces without preamble as he drops into the seat in front of him.

"Maybe he's nervous," Michael mutters, not particularly caring about Kellerman's bathroom habits, but Lincoln shakes his head.

“On his last trip, I heard his cell phone ringing before he managed to shut the door behind him.” Lincoln scowls. “Something’s going on with him.” He glances down the carriage to where Kellerman sits, apparently engrossed in the newspaper, then back at Michael. “I feel it in my gut.”

Michael swears under his breath. When it comes to Paul Kellerman, they can't afford not to be prepared for the worst. “Remember what Dad said.” Even now, the word Dad felt odd on his tongue. “Nothing that Kellerman might know is worth more than our lives.”

His brother gives him a wry glance. “Goes to show the old man can be right about some things, yeah?”

Sara appears at Lincoln’s shoulder. She’s spent the last three hours sleeping, stretched out on the floor of the back row of seats, hidden from view. She looks almost refreshed, if somewhat tousled, although her eyes are still filled with the same trepidation that’s currently plaiting Michael’s stomach into knots. She gives them both a quick smile, then fishes a toothbrush and tube of paste out of the duffle bag under Michael’s chair. Once she’s closed the door to the small washroom behind her, Michael reaches for her handbag.

Lincoln stares. “What are you doing, man?”

“Acting on your gut instinct.” He glances over his shoulder, but Kellerman is still busily reading the newspaper. “Block his view, will you?” he mutters, and Lincoln casually shifts his body until he’s directly between Michael and Kellerman.

He rummages through the still unzipped duffle bag at his feet until he finds the GPS unit, dropping it on the empty seat beside him. Sliding his hand into Sara's purse, it takes him less than a minute to locate and remove the small tracker he’d hidden a few nights earlier and another sixty seconds to bury the GPS unit underneath her eclectic collection of belongings. As he slides the small round tracking disc into his sock, he can’t help but thank prison life for making the art of concealment almost second nature.

Lincoln is watching his every move. “You wanna tell me why you’re doing what you’re doing?”

“I want Sara to have a way to find us.” He looks at his brother. “Just in case.”

“But you’re going to be with her,” Lincoln points out, and Michael hesitates. How can he explain it to Lincoln when he can’t actually explain it to himself?

“Just in case,” he says again, and to his relief, Lincoln simply shrugs.

“What about money?”

Michael winces inwardly as his brother manages to pinpoint the other weak spot in their plan. “We don’t have much left,” he admits, “but I think I have the solution.” Giving Lincoln a nod, he gets to his feet and makes his way down to Kellerman’s seat.

“I need you to give me all the cash you have,” he tells Kellerman, and the other man does a double-take that might be comical coming from anyone else.

“Excuse me?”

“We’re running a little low on funds.” Michael glances back at a glowering Lincoln, making sure that Kellerman’s gaze follows his. “Surely you’re not objecting to chipping in for the good of the cause?”

Kellerman looks as though he’d rather eat glass than obligingly hand over his cash, not matter what the cause, but after a long look of consideration at the two of them, he eventually pulls out his wallet. “Happy now?” he almost snarls as he slaps four hundred dollar bills into Michael’s hand.

Michael gives him a humourless smile as he shoves the money into his jeans pocket. “Not really, but it’s a start.”

“Once again,” the other man says, “I can’t stress enough how much I miss working alone.”

“So you keep saying.”

He returns to his brother's side, watches him for a moment as he toys listlessly with the cell phone in his hand, and suddenly realises something important he's neglected to ask. "How's LJ?"

A slow smile breaks over Lincoln's face. "He's good. Jane's looking out for him."

"Is he still with Dad?"

His brother shakes his head. "No. He's at Jane's place in Washington."

Michael hesitates. He shouldn't get into this, he knows that, but he has to ask. Not more than two weeks ago, Lincoln had risked both their lives in their frighteningly reckless attempt to snatch LJ from the courthouse, and now he was content to let a relative stranger spirit him away. Something wasn't adding up, and Michael wanted to find out why. "That's the safe place Dad promised? Hanging out in Jane's spare room?"

"Jane's house comes equipped with two armed guards with Special Forces training, twenty-four hours a day."

"Ah." Michael studies his brother carefully. "You're okay with that?"

Lincoln frowns. "Why wouldn't I be?"

There's a dozen answers Michael could give him, but in the end, he decides to err on the side of caution. "You must trust her."

Lincoln looks at him. "I do."

Michael feels something disturbingly close to resentment wash over him - how many times has he had to fight to convince Lincoln to believe in the plan, to believe in him? - but he shakes it off in favour of the undeniable truth. "So do I."


~*~


He refuses Kellerman’s jacket when the train pulls into Union Station - he doesn’t plan on playing the captured prisoner once he’s left this carriage – and to his surprise, Kellerman doesn’t insist.

As the train comes to a slow stop, Kellerman shrugs into his jacket and picks up his backpack. “I’m the only one who isn’t a convicted felon,” Kellerman announces to the group at large. “The three of you can wait while I organise a hire car and -”

“No hire cars,” Michael interjects. “No paper trail.”

Kellerman makes a scoffing noise at the back of his throat. “Oh, please. What do you think this is, amateur hour? I do know how these things work, Scofield.”

Michael glances at Lincoln – a silent question being asked, an answer being given – then Lincoln smiles grimly at Kellerman. “Fine. But I’ll be coming with you while you fill out the paperwork. Just to make sure we don’t lose each other.”

Kellerman hesitates, but only for a few seconds. “Fine. Just keep your damned cap on.”

When the train stops, Michael looks at Sara. “You ready for this?”

“Can I say no?” she asks with a nervous smile, and he lets the back of his hand brush against hers, willing her to believe that this is going to work.

“I’m afraid not,” he tells her, returning her smile. "Maybe next time?"

They disembark quickly, moving together through the teeming crowd. Halfway across the main floor of the station, Lincoln catches Michael’s eye. Michael nods, and his brother turns to speak to Kellerman. “Right, let's go -” he begins, then abruptly stops, because Kellerman is nowhere to be seen.

“Where the fuck is he?” Lincoln demands. “He was standing right behind you!”

Michael turns on his heel and scans the crowd around them, even though he knows his search will be in vain and the irony would choke him if he let it. “He’s gone,” he says flatly. Looking over his shoulder, he sees two uniformed police officers standing near the back of the train, talking to one of the train guards. His stomach drops, and he knows that their trouble-free journey has just come to an abrupt end.

Lincoln’s gaze follows his, then he turns to him in despair, his eyes flashing with anger. “The bastard set us up.”

“Maybe. Maybe not.” His stomach still churning, Michael grabs Sara’s hand and nods at his brother. “Either way, we gotta go.”

They begin to move swiftly through the crowd, heading towards the closest exit to the street. Sara’s hand is slippery in his, and he tightens his grip, unwilling to allow even the slightest chance of being separated. It takes five minutes – it feels like five hours – but they finally end up on the sidewalk, blinking in the sudden glare of sunlight, the three of them huddled together in a sea of pedestrians. He sees the flashing lights of the police cruisers in the distance - somehow, their silent approach makes them seem so much more menacing - and desperation claws at him as he frantically scans the street, looking for a way out, looking for an answer.

“What do we do now?” The hopelessness in Sara’s voice matches the dread in his brother’s eyes. Michael stares at them both, knowing he can’t let it end this way, not like this, not when they’re so close. His gaze slides over Sara’s shoulder to the line of cars behind her, then to the traffic lights to their left. The lights are red but they’re about to turn green, and there’s an empty cab idling not more than three feet away from them.

Michael blinks, suddenly seeing the answer laid out before him, and he realises it’s an answer he’d already anticipated. It’s why the GPS unit is now in Sara’s bag. It’s why he forced Kellerman to give him that cash. It’s why he wrote down the address Jane gave him.

“Sara?” She looks at him with trusting eyes and the reality of what he’s about to do hits him like a punch to the gut, but he has no choice. He and Lincoln are instantly recognisable. Sara is not. “Take this.” He presses Kellerman’s money and the scrap of paper with Jane’s address into her hand, then curls her fingers over it tightly. “Get in the taxi behind you and go straight to that address. Linc and I will get there when we can.” He doesn’t let himself say if. He doesn’t have to.

She stares at the piece of paper in her hand, then shakes her head violently, the fear and shock in her eyes taking nothing away from the stubborn set of her jaw. “I’m not leaving you.”

“We’ve got no choice. One of us has to get to that address and you’ve got a better chance than me or Lincoln. And whatever your father left, he left it for you.” Grabbing her by the shoulders, he thinks of that desperate flight through the woods and wastes precious time they don’t have, finally letting himself say the words. “I love you.” Before she can speak, before he can change his mind, he turns her around and pushes her towards the taxi. “You have to go. Now.”

“Michael!” The panic in her voice almost splinters his heart in two but he steps backward, quickly putting as much distance between them as he can. She casts a look of abject misery over her shoulder, but she does as he asks, wrenching open the back door of the taxi and hurriedly climbing into the backseat. Her distressed gaze locks with his through the window, then he sees her mouth moving, and he knows she’s giving the address to the driver. Five seconds later the traffic lights have changed and the traffic has started to move, taking her with it. The taxi swerves out into the next lane, losing itself in a sea of yellow cars, and she’s gone.

She’s gone and he’s numb, staring at the hole in the world where she’d been. Lincoln is suddenly at his shoulder, pulling at his arm, half-dragging him along the pavement. He looks over his shoulder, sees the flashing blue lights drawing closer, sees the first of the men in dark suits darting through the crowd. The instinct to survive kicks in, bleeding through the hollow ache of loss, and his feet begin to move, the hard soles of his prison boots slapping against the city pavement as they begin to run in the opposite direction to the one taken by Sara’s taxi.

“Did you write down the address that Jane gave you?” he asks breathlessly as they weave their way through the human traffic.

“Yes.”

“Lose it. Fast.”

“But how will we find-” he breaks off, then looks at Michael and shakes his head ruefully. “Right. Forgot who I was dealing with.” He shoves his hand into his jeans pocket and pulls out a crumpled piece of paper. Without missing a step, he shreds it into a dozen pieces and lets them fall to the ground. “We need to call Jane,” he barks over his shoulder as they start to run in earnest. “Let her know what’s happened.”

Michael’s about to agree when a black sedan almost mounts the pavement in front of them. “Fuck!” His heart leaps into his throat and he turns on his heel, one hand reaching out to grab Lincoln’s elbow. “Back this way,” he gasps, but it’s lost beneath the sudden blare of sirens and shouting voices and screeching tires and the dull certainty that Kellerman has set them up.

“Hands in the air! Now!”

There are other words being shouted – behind them, in front of them - but they’re all blurring into one huge cacophony of sound, making his ears and his head hurt.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers to his brother, but Lincoln is already on the ground, someone’s knee in his back, his arms pulled tight behind him as his wrists are cuffed. Somewhere amidst the sirens and the barking voices, he hears the sound of Lincoln's cell phone ringing, and hazily wonders if it's Sara or Jane, knowing that it makes no difference, not now. This can't be happening, Michael thinks desperately, but it is and there's nothing he can do about it. As he’s pushed to the ground, the cold metal of the handcuffs cutting into his own wrists, he closes his eyes as despair rises up inside him, choking him. As his knees hit the hard pavement, he knows a helplessness he hasn't felt since the night he watched his brother being strapped into the chair, a hollow sense of failure carving out his chest, leaving him empty, his mind reaching out for the memory of Sara's face.

I’m so sorry, he tells her silently, praying she's already far away, that he wasn't too late to keep her safe. There's a sharp, sudden pain in his head, blurring everything around him, then there's darkness and nothing else.



~*~

~*~





Sara sits and half-listens as her three travelling companions argue about rental cars and paper trails, staring out the window at the increasingly familiar landscape. She feels more nervous with every passing mile, because each one of those miles brings them closer to Washington, to their target, to what could be the beginning of the end. She twists her hands together in her lap, rubbing her damp palms down the front of her sweatpants, and tries not to think of just much is about to depend on her.

Michael has promised she won’t be alone when she attempts to retrieve her father’s last message, but she suspects he was only telling her what they both wanted to hear. They’re not going to be the ones calling the shots. She knows Michael’s father and Jane will do all they can to keep her safe, but her father died because of what he’d discovered in Washington. Thinking she’ll be able to just stroll into that teahouse and stroll out again would be very naïve, and she stopped being naïve the day Paul Kellerman shoved a gun in her face in the middle of a Chicago alley.

Michael gives her a reassuring smile every time their eyes meet, obviously hoping to make her feel more relaxed, but the gesture has the opposite effect. Almost twenty-four hours later and the memory of their illicit tryst in the bathroom - a public bathroom, for God’s sake – still has the power to make her blush right down to the soles of her feet.

She’s not quite sure when she became the type of woman who has sex in public places. Perhaps she always has been that woman, and it just took the right – or wrong – circumstances for her to realise it, or perhaps it just took the right man and the right amount of desperation. Staring at Michael’s familiar profile, she remembers her teasing words, that they’d have to ‘try this in a bed one day’. Despite her nervousness, the thought makes a hot ripple of hunger dance through the pit of her stomach.

Damn it.

She looks away, drawing in half a dozen long, slow breaths that - amazingly enough - manage to soothe her frayed nerves. She knows the enormity of what they’re about to do, and she knows she can’t afford to let herself be distracted by her feelings for Michael. But that’s easier said than done, she thinks bleakly, when those feelings seem to have coloured her every decision for the last three months.

When their train finally pulls into Union Station, Michael gets to his feet and slings his duffle bag over his shoulder. He glances at Lincoln, already waiting beside the exit, then at her. “You ready for this?”

In truth, she feels as though she’s about to throw up, but she’s long past the stage of feeling she has to save face in front of this man. Picking up her own bag, she shuffles sideways out of her seat, wincing as her leg muscles – too long in the one position – twinge in protest. “Can I say no?”

“I’m afraid not.” He smiles at her, and she feels the fleeting reassurance of his hand brushing against hers. “Maybe next time?"

The prospect of having to go through this a second time does nothing to lift her spirits. She briefly contemplates quipping that if he’s trying to make her feel better, he’s doing a terrible job, but that would only remind them both of everything they’ve done their best to leave behind. Forwards, not backwards, she tells herself sternly, then follows him to the train’s automatic exit doors.

Lincoln leads the way as they step down from the carriage, Michael at his shoulder. Kellerman is a few steps behind her, and she’s glad. She can’t look at his face without feeling a sudden, raw surge of anger, let alone make small talk as they push their way through the crowd. Michael’s heated touch may have chased away a small measure of the chill from her bones, but she already knows that nothing is ever going to make her forget those two hours alone with Paul Kellerman.

They’re halfway across the main floor of the station when she sees Lincoln and Michael exchange a silent look and a nod – not for the first time, she can’t help envying their ability to communicate without a single word - then Lincoln turns to speak to Kellerman over her shoulder. “Right, let's go -” he starts to say, but his words fade away, his gaze narrowing. “Where the fuck is he?”

Michael turns at the same time she does, and it only takes a few seconds for both of them to realise that Paul Kellerman is nowhere to be seen. Her heart sinks.

“He was standing right behind you!” Lincoln spits out in furious disbelief. By contrast, his brother sounds almost too calm.

“He’s gone.” Michael’s voice is hollow as he turns to scan the crowd behind them, the blood instantly draining from his face. Sara follows the line of his gaze, sucking in a sharp breath at the sight of the uniformed police officers converging on the train. Oh, God. No, no, no.

Lincoln is staring in the same direction, looking just as stricken as she feels. “The bastard set us up.”

“Maybe. Maybe not.” Michael grabs her hand and squeezes it, then nods at his brother. “Either way, we gotta go.”

They start to walk quickly, pushing their way through the crowd. Lincoln takes the lead, literally shouldering people out of his way. Michael is holding her hand so tightly that her fingers start to tingle, but she doesn’t care. Bruised fingers are nothing compared to the thought of letting go.

Sara’s never suffered from anything remotely resembling agoraphobia, but today she knows how it feels to be afraid of the crush of strangers’ bodies. She meets no one’s eyes as they shove their way through the crowd, but she can still feel them looking at her. Knowing her. Only the tight clasp of Michael’s hand keeps her anchored, centred, and it’s a relief when they reach street level, the clear Washington sky above their heads, cool air filling her lungs.

It’s a fleeting respite. She once again follows the line of Michael’s anguished gaze, and the bottom falls out of her stomach. She tears her eyes away from the flashing blue lights in the distance, throwing a beseeching glance at Michael. “What do we do now?” she asks, her voice choked with fear. Michael looks at her and his brother in turn, then over her shoulder towards the traffic. His gaze narrows, and she can literally see his mind racing, the cool calculation beneath the surface panic.

“Sara?” She looks at him expectantly, waiting for him to tell her that they need to run. He doesn’t. He takes her hand in his, and presses something into her palm. “Take this,” he mutters, not quite meeting her eyes. “Get in the taxi behind you and go straight to that address. Linc and I will get there when we can.”

Mute with shock, she stares down at her hand – he’s given her a wad of cash and the scrap of envelope with Jane’s address – and shakes her head, unable to believe what she’s just heard. He can’t possibly be sending her away. “I’m not leaving you,” she finally manages to choke out the words through lips that feel frozen and stiff.

“We’ve got no choice,” he insists urgently, pulling his duffle bag off his shoulder as he speaks. A few seconds later the strap is hooked over her shoulder and he’s staring into her eyes with an intensity that almost makes her want to take a step backwards. “One of us has to get to that address and you’ve got a better chance than me or Lincoln. And whatever your father left, he left it for you.”

He takes her by the shoulders, his finger digging into flesh and bone, his gaze burning into hers. “I love you.” She stares at him, shock once again stealing her voice, barely aware of the urgent press of his fingertips against her skin as he spins her around and pushes her away from him. “You have to go. Now.”

“Michael!” She almost trips over her own feet as she tries to turn around, to go back to him, but he’s already moving away from her, his eyes silently pleading with her to go, to leave him. The bag over her shoulder is heavy, thumping against her hip as she takes one step, then another, then another. Still not quite believing this is happening, she pulls open the rear passenger door of the waiting taxi and clambers inside, awkwardly pulling Michael’s bag into her lap as she sinks onto the backseat.

The driver barely lifts his head. “Where to?”

“Uh-” Sara stares down at the piece of paper in her hand, rattling off the Dupont Circle address Jane had given Michael, then adds a breathless, “Please hurry.” Her frantic gaze seeks and finds Michael’s through the car window. He’s staring at her as though he’s afraid he’s never going to see her again, and she’s suddenly afraid he’s right.

The young driver grunts an acknowledgement – whether it’s of the address or her plea for him to hurry, she’ll never know – then the lights change and they’re moving. She tries to keep Michael in view but Lincoln grabs his arm, pulling him back into the crowd, and they’re lost to her sight.

“Visiting from out of town?”

She flinches at the sound of the driver’s voice. “What?”

“Are you from out of town?” he repeats with a decided air of impatience, and she gives herself a mental shake.

Normal. Be normal. “Yes,” she says, surprised that she can sound so casual when her heart feels as though it’s pounding divots in her ribcage. “I’m visiting a friend for a few days.”

“Cool.” With that succinct observation, he turns up the volume on the car stereo – thankfully he’s listening to a CD, rather than the radio - and she can’t quite believe she’s managed to find a cab driver who doesn’t want to chat.

Sara sits back in her seat, doing her best to look like an ordinary passenger on an ordinary trip on an ordinary day. She knows she has no choice but to keep going, but it’s all she can do not to tell the driver to turn the car around. She still can’t believe that she’s alone again, that Michael forced her to leave them, and yet there’s a part of her that’s not surprised at all. He’d wanted her to reach the evidence that could exonerate Lincoln, but he’d also wanted to keep her from registering on the authorities’ collective radar. She’d be lying if she said she didn’t understand why he did what he did.

She looks down at the duffle bag in her lap, then the scrawled note in her hand, and her eyes begin to burn at the sight of Michael’s handwriting. She understands, she thinks darkly, but that doesn’t mean she isn’t furious, and she’s glad, because being angry is better than being afraid. Afraid for herself, for Michael, for Lincoln, afraid that her father may have died for nothing. If she’s angry, maybe she won’t let herself think of how easy it would be to tell the driver to take a quick detour via the closest bar, how easy it would be to dull the edges of her fear.

She presses her tongue hard against the back of her teeth, determinedly pushing away the insidious lure of blissful oblivion, and blinks away the damp prickling behind her eyes. She stares at the traffic around the taxi, studying faces and vehicles, her heart still beating fast. She feels almost foolish for expecting the worst, but quickly reminds herself that the line between caution and paranoia was blurred a long time ago. If Paul Kellerman is once again playing this hideous game as a free agent, it’s not only the Washington Police Department she’s running from.

It takes fifteen minutes to reach the address on the torn piece of paper, and each one of those minutes is filled with a dread so cloying she feels as though she can’t breathe. When the taxi turns into the street where Jane has apparently secured yet another safe house, Sara scans the street numbers with relief. She has no reason to believe that her driver is anything but what he appears to be, but she’s not prepared to take any chances. Once they’re within easy walking distance of the street number she needs, she leans forward in her seat. “Just drop me off here, thank you.”

He tells her the fare and she hands him far too much money, forcing a smile as she tells him to keep the change. His eyes widen, then he bobs his head and grins. “Have a nice day.”

I doubt it, she thinks but of course doesn’t say. Her stomach is churning as she climbs out of the car, dragging the heavy duffle behind her. Slinging it over one shoulder, she hitches her handbag over the other, then slams the taxi door shut. She walks slowly along the wrong side of the street, watching as the driver pulls away and eventually turns left at the end of the street. Taking a deep breath, she crosses the street quickly, trying to look everywhere at once, feeling as though the eyes of the whole damned world are on her.

She’s less than five feet away from her destination when she stops in her tracks, staring at the man standing outside the front door of the small apartment complex, her breath catching in her throat. He suddenly turns, letting her see his face, and her stride falters. It’s not Michael or Lincoln or even their father, but a completely unfamiliar dark-haired man in his twenties. Her hand tightens around the strap of Michael’s bag, her feet literally itching with the impulse to flee, then the man nods at her. “Ms. Tancredi.”

It’s not a question. Sara blinks, too taken aback not to answer. “Yes.”

“Ms. Phillips is expecting you.” He beckons her closer, waving her into the foyer of the building. “Apartment number eight, top floor,” he tells her as she passes, and she finds herself stammering a thank you. As she presses the button to call the elevator, a faint flicker of hope rises up inside her. Maybe Michael and Lincoln were able to outmanoeuvre the police after she’d left them. Maybe they’ve actually beaten her here and are waiting upstairs, and in a few minutes she will be able to tell Michael to his face exactly what she thinks of his diversionary tactics.

The elevator only has three floors to travel, but it seems to take an eternity. She leans against the wall and stares at her reflection in mirrored tiles opposite, noting without surprise that she looks as nervous as she feels. A few seconds after her hesitant knock on the apartment door, she finds herself staring at Jane. “Are they here?” she asks without preamble, knowing that Jane won’t give a damn about non-observance of etiquette.

The other woman shakes her head. “No.”

Oh, God. It seems impossible that one word could sting so much, but it does and she feels as though someone’s shoved a knife in her belly. She leans against the door frame, Michael’s bag dangling from her hand. Without a word, Jane picks up the discarded bag, takes her by the elbow and draws her into the apartment, shutting the door firmly behind them.

“Tell me what happened,” she says with a calm Sara would envy if she could think of anything else but the fact that Michael and Lincoln are not here.

“We got to Union Station and suddenly police cars were everywhere,” Sara mutters unsteadily, her hand groping for the chair that’s magically materialised in front of her.

Jane nods unhappily. “We picked up a call to the local 911 five minutes before your train was due at Union Station.”

Sara grimaces. “Our train was a few minutes early, I think.”

Jane’s gaze locks with hers. “And the police were waiting for you.” Sara nods, and Janes lifts her hands in an uncharacteristic gesture of defeat. “I tried to contact Lincoln as soon as we picked up the 911 call, but he didn’t answer.” Her jaw tightens. “His phone has since been switched off.”

Sara closes her eyes in despair. She doesn’t remember Lincoln’s cell phone ringing while she was still with them. If it had rung after Michael had pushed her into that taxi, they would have answered Jane’s call, even if they’d been running for their lives. The fact that they hadn’t – or couldn’t – has a tight knot of dread sinking to the pit of her stomach.

“Michael gave me this address and pushed me into a taxi.” She drops into the chair, her handbag sliding off her shoulder to the floor. “He said we needed to split up and that I had a better chance of avoiding capture.”

“He was right.” Jane says briskly as she walks out of the room, returning half a moment later with a glass of water that she presses into Sara’s hands. “You weren’t followed?”

Sara hesitates. She’d done her best to watch her back, but the traffic had been heavy and she’d been in no state for noticing minute details. “Not as far as I’m aware, but I can’t be absolutely certain, no.” She stares down at the glass in her hands. “Was it Kellerman who called the police?”

Jane leans against a long antique bureau, her arms folded across her chest. “We’re not sure.”

“He vanished as soon as we stepped off the train,” Sara tells her, and the bitterness in her voice surprises even her.

Jane frowns. “I doubt he’s very far away.”

Sara takes a sip of water, more for something to do than anything else. “What makes you think he didn’t just cut and run?”

“Because that’s not his style,” Jane replies flatly, and not for the first time, Sara wonders how well she knows Paul Kellerman. “I suspect he anticipated you would try to shut him out of the retrieval operation, and took the opportunity afforded by the appearance of the police to pick up his own agenda once more.”

Swallowing the urge to remind Jane that shutting Kellerman out had been her idea, Sara nods. “So, now what?”

“Are you hungry? There’s food in the refrigerator.”

Sara shakes her head. She knows she should eat something, but her stomach still feels as though it’s filled with broken glass. “No, thanks.”

Jane uncrosses her arms, pushing herself away from the wooden bureau. “Aldo is pulling every string possible to ascertain Michael and Lincoln’s current status. I’m expecting a call from him any moment.” Her disconcertingly forthright gaze flicks over Sara, but not unkindly so. “While we’re waiting, perhaps you’d like to freshen up?”

Sara hesitates. All she wants to do is find out if Michael and Lincoln are safe. Quite frankly, she couldn’t care less about the state of her hair or her clothes. But she has to admit that Jane has a point. A shower and a change of clothes might help her feel like less of a refugee. “Fine.” Aware she sounds less than gracious, she adds a hasty, "Thank you."

Jane points her in the direction of both the bathroom and an airy bedroom, and Sara finds herself staring longingly at the bed, suddenly so weary that it almost feels as though her bones are crumbling away. One day soon, she promises herself, she is going to sleep for twelve hours straight in a real bed. Maybe even sixteen hours.

Before that particular train of thought can follow the painfully obvious path to the man responsible for her being in this room without him, she puffs out a loud sigh and swings both bags onto the bed. When she catches sight of the bills clumsily stashed in the zippered side compartment of her purse, her eyes widen. The last thirty minutes have been such a blur, she scarcely remembers the trip, let alone what she did with Kellerman’s money after she’d paid the taxi driver.

She pulls the wad of money out of the side pocket, and with it come the two slightly battered paper cranes Michael had retrieved from Kellerman in Gila. Her throat tightens at the sight of them, remembering how solemnly he’d returned them to her, the unspoken promises they represented. Carefully putting them to one side – one day she’ll have the damned things bronzed and put on her mantle, she decides with an unexpected flash of humour - she reaches into her handbag for her wallet, intent on putting the cash in a more secure place. Her hand brushes against something very unfamiliar, and she frowns.

Pulling it out of her bag, she stares at the GPS unit Michael had bought from the Target in Springfield. “What the hell?” Turning on her heel, she picks up her handbag and heads straight back to the main living room and to Jane.

The other woman eyes the unit with interest. “Yours?”

“No, and I have no idea why it’s in my handbag -” Sara breaks off, her thoughts furiously backtracking over the last few days, images and words flashing through her head. “He swapped them,” she blurts out loudly, her hand tightening around the GPS as though it’s her last link to Michael and maybe it is.

Jane frowns. “Who?”

“Michael. He swapped them,” she says again, her words tripping over themselves in her haste to explain. “A few days ago, Michael put a tracker in my purse.” She scrabbles through the contents of her handbag, then gives up and tips everything out onto the coffee table and begins to frantically sort through lip balm and dental floss and pens and tampons and antiseptic hand wash. There’s nothing else in her bag that doesn’t belong to her, she realises, and feels a sudden flicker of hope. “So if I have this-”

“Then Michael should have the tracker on him,” Jane finishes the thought for her.

“Yes.” Sara feels a sudden burst of hope, but it’s just as quickly swamped by a wave of frustration. “But if they’re already in custody, what good will it do us?”

Jane takes the unit from her hand, a rare smile touching her lips. “You’d be surprised.” She picks up a wireless earpiece from the table and hooks it over her ear. “We’ve snatched Lincoln from the police once before. I dare say we could manage it a second time.”

Sara watches Jane as she activates the GPS unit with a few casual keystrokes, then suddenly remembers something else. "Michael's police scanner should be in his bag too, if you need it?"

Another rare smile from Jane. "Thanks, but our people in the field are already fully equipped." With that, she lifts her hand to touch her wireless earpiece. “I need to make a few calls,” she offers with a faint air of apology. “You have time to take that shower, if you wish.”

Sara frowns. She doesn’t want to waste time showering, not now that there’s a chance of finding Michael and Lincoln. She wants to sit beside Jane and stare at the display screen of the GPS, watching the flashing coordinates that will translate into Michael and Lincoln’s position. She wants to listen to Jane’s one-sided conversations with Aldo Burrows and tell herself that he’ll be able to find his sons before the Company does. She wants to visit the place her mother loved best and take the first step towards ending this nightmare. “How soon can we -?”

Jane holds up one hand, then begins to speak to a third party via her earpiece. “The daughter is with me and we have the means to locate the other parties. Call me.” Disconnecting, she shakes her head. “Voicemail,” she mutters with unmistakable loathing, then glances at Sara. “I’m waiting for confirmation on the arrangements for your visit to the teahouse.” She pulls off the wireless earpiece, gently rubbing the top of her ear with a rueful smile. “Our profiler believes if your father did leave something for you, he would have made sure that you, and only you, would be the one to retrieve it.”

“That’s what Michael said, too.” She doesn’t stumble over his name, and she’s glad. She has the feeling that Jane Phillips already knows far too much about her feelings for Michael Scofield.

“The four of you spent almost two days in each other’s company.” The other woman gives her a searching look. “And you didn’t discuss your real destination within earshot of Paul Kellerman?”

Sara returns her gaze steadily. “No.”

“You’re certain?”

Sara hesitates. “I can’t be certain,” she admits reluctantly, “not when it comes to him.”

She and Jane share an unexpected glance of perfect understanding, then Jane nods towards the bathroom. “Please, feel free to use whatever you need.”

Knowing a dismissal – however polite – when she hears one, Sara doesn’t bother arguing. “Thank you.”

Returning to the bedroom, she rummages through Michael’s duffle bag to retrieve her toothbrush and a set of clean clothes. She still can’t believe he managed to correctly guess her bra size – she doubts any of his Loyola professors could have ever dreamed he’d use his college degree for such a practical application. She closes her eyes, letting herself remember his hands cupping her breasts with gentle reverence, his long fingers stroking and teasing, then she shakes her head, pushing the memory away. She can’t do this, not now.

Once installed in the bathroom, she shuts the door firmly behind her and does her best to put Michael out of her head. She pulls her hooded sweatshirt over her head, and her best suddenly isn’t good enough. She catches a faint hint of lemon soap and something else that sends a flurry of butterflies arching through her belly - God, she can still smell him, them, on her clothes.

She wants very much to bury her face in her shirt, inhale the scent of him until it chases away the memory of his face as he watched her leave him, but she doesn’t. She feels brittle and breakable, wound too tight, and she knows that wallowing in everything that’s happened between them will only serve to make her feel worse.

She takes a deep breath and puts the shirt aside, quickly stripping off the rest of her clothes, rolling them into a neat bundle. Perhaps she should simply throw them away, but she’s strangely reluctant to dispose of them. She has only a vague memory of thanking Michael for buying them for her. When she sees him, she promises herself, she will thank him again. As soon as she’s finished telling him exactly what she thinks of his last minute diversionary tactics, she thinks for the second time in an hour. Right now, though, she’ll shower and she’ll change and if she doesn’t let herself think too much about the events of the last week, she’ll be okay.

After liberating a tube of delicately scented and extremely overpriced face cleanser from the well-stocked bathroom cabinet (something that makes quite a change from the other safe houses she’s found herself in over the last week, she thinks dryly) then turns around, intent on having the hottest shower in living memory. When her gaze falls on the oversized white bathtub nestled beside the shower, she’s suddenly somewhere else, with someone else. Her chest feels tight and cold, her lungs constricted and aching with the panicked need to breathe, and she realises too late that she is far from okay.

Gripping the edge of the sink with both hands, she closes her eyes, remember the feel of wet hair clinging to her face, the almost antiseptic smell of soap and clean towels. Her mouth dries, her hands white-knuckled on the sink, the smell of burning flesh - it’s not real, it can’t be - suddenly thick in her nose and her throat. She remembers cold water pouring into her ears, the feel of the metal chain pressed hard against her teeth.

She remembers knowing she was about to die.

Oh, God. She feels sick, ripples of heat and cold fluttering across her skin. She’d thought she was stronger than this, that she’d managed to put it behind her, burned off the fear with her anger. She’d been wrong.

This has happened before, in Gila, and she’d ended up huddled at the bottom of an ancient shower stall, trying to drown out both the world and the thoughts inside her head. That time, Michael had been there to pull her through to the other side. But Michael isn’t here now, and although she knows Jane is only in the next room, Sara has never felt more alone in her life.

She sucks in several long breaths, desperately trying to pull herself together, keep herself together. Opening her eyes, she stares at her reflection for a long moment, and then she feels a sudden surge of anger. These people have already taken so much from her. She can’t - won’t - let them take anything else.

Narrowing her eyes at the pristine white tub, she turns her back on it, pulling open the glass shower door with an abrupt jerk. She stands underneath the hot water for a long time, unable to stop her furious tears, tears that dissolve in the steam and the heat as she lets herself weep for everything she’s lost and everything she still has to lose. By the time she twists the faucets off, she feels as hollow as a drum, stretched too tight, but her eyes are dry. That’s enough, she tells herself fiercely, and for the first time, she believes it. For the first time, she knows she can and will do whatever it takes in order to end this nightmare.

With Jane’s concerned questions about Kellerman echoing in her thoughts, she wraps a clean towel around herself, crosses the room and opens the bathroom cabinet to stare at the small cardboard boxes she’d noticed earlier. She grimly studies the forced smiles of the model on the front of each box for a moment, eventually selecting a dark-haired girl who looks as though she couldn’t be a day over seventeen. A quick search through the vanity drawers unearth a pair of dressmaking scissors, old but sharp enough for the task. She looks at herself in the mirror, takes a deep breath, and curls her fingers through the cold metal handle of the scissors.

Forty minutes later, a woman she barely recognises stares back at her, a woman with dark brown hair that skims her jaw. She can’t remember the last time her hair was this short. Second year of college, she thinks, suddenly remembering she’d dyed it over a small bathroom sink on that occasion as well. She reaches up a tentative hand, running her fingers through the tousled ends of her shaggy bob, then dresses quickly - despite the darkness of her mood, she marvels once again at Michael’s uncanny eye for scale – before going in search of Jane.

She finds her ensconced in the small study at the end of the hall, this time with a cell phone presses to her ear. “I’ll call you back,” Jane murmurs into the phone, then looks at Sara. To her relief, the other woman asks no questions, merely raising one eyebrow in approval. “That colour suits you.”

Sara shrugs with faint embarrassment. “Thanks.” Under different circumstances, she might have loved the new look, but it’s hard to find pleasure in a change that’s literally been made to help keep her alive.

Jane tilts her head to one side, still studying her, then she nods. “Very different look for you."

“That was the idea, I guess.” Sara manages a smile. “Should I be worried that you had a selection of hair dyes in the bathroom cupboard?"

Jane shrugs. “Part of being prepared for anything.”

Just like Michael, Sara thinks, and wishes she hadn’t, because the thought of Michael makes her feel as though someone has dug into her chest and scooped everything out. In an effort to distract herself, she gestures towards the phone in Jane’s hand. “Anything?”

“I spoke to Aldo while you were in the shower.”

Sara’s mouth dries. “And?”

“He’s fairly confident his team will be able to retrieve Michael and Lincoln.”

Sara doesn’t want to zero in on the one worrying word in that sentence, but she can’t help it. “Fairly confident?”

“There’s always room for doubt, unfortunately,” Janes says quietly, then the shrill peal of her cell phone signals the end of their conversation. “Give me a minute, will you? We can’t move until we get the final word from our contact. Could be five minutes, could be an hour.” She nods in the direction of the kitchen. “You should try to eat something.”

Once again dismissed - once again, not unkindly - Sara turns on her heel and walks away, gripped by a frustration that makes her want to slam doors very loudly. If she was out there, actually doing something instead of absolutely nothing, she might not feel quite so useless. However, because she is twenty-nine and not fourteen, Sara slams no doors but instead takes up the suggestion of food, making her way to the kitchen.

Ten minutes later, she's made herself a peanut butter sandwich and a cup of coffee, but it’s hard to drum up any enthusiasm for either of them. The sandwich is the first real food - Twinkies will never count as food as far as she’s concerned – she’s had in days, and it should taste a lot better than it does. Perhaps if her stomach wasn’t tied up in tight little knots, she would appreciate it more. But how can she when she’s sitting here in comfort and Michael and Lincoln could be anywhere? They could be dead, the insidious voice in her head whispers, and she closes her eyes in despair. Pushing aside her half-empty coffee cup, she drops her head into her hands, trying and failing not of her father and Michael and Lincoln and the still tender marks around her wrists. Damn it. She feels the familiar burn of angry tears stinging her eyes, the raw grief that hollows out her chest, and she wants it to stop.

Afterwards, she doesn’t try to blame the waiting, or the utter feeling of helplessness. Afterwards, she will realise that she was testing herself, wanting to know how tenuous her grip on her control actually was. Because if she had the strength to do this one thing, she would have the strength for everything else. Afterwards, she'll realise a lot of things, but right now, all she knows is that she's staring at the half-bottle of scotch she’d stumbled across when searching the cupboards for the peanut butter.

She stares at the bottle for what feels like a long time. She doesn’t pour herself a shot. She doesn’t put it back in the cupboard, but she doesn’t pour herself a shot. It’s a small victory, but a victory nevertheless, and she learned long ago to find the positive in any situation.

“You don’t want to do that,” Jane says casually from the doorway.

Sara flicks one fingernail against the peeling corner of the label on the bottle, and she wonders if it’s Jane or Aldo who has the nervous label-peeling tic. “I do, actually.” Perhaps she should be surprised that this woman knows she’s a recovering addict, but it’s becoming increasingly clear that no one’s secrets are safe. “But I won’t.” She looks up at Jane. “And that’s the important thing.”

Jane nods but says nothing, waiting. Letting out her breath, Sara gets to her feet, picks up the bottle and walks across the kitchen to the sink. Turning, she catches Jane's eye, feeling the need to be polite, even though she doubts Jane would feel much attachment to an old bottle of cheap scotch. "May I?" When the other woman nods, Sara unscrews the cap and pours the scotch away, every last drop. The familiar scent of it makes her nose twitch and her stomach clench, but she suddenly feels lighter, as though she’s slipped out of her old skin.

Jane raises one dark blonde eyebrow. “Surely maintaining sobriety is more a matter of self-control rather than simply ridding one’s self of temptation?”

Sara suppresses the old flicker of resentment, the familiar urge to insist that she knows best when it comes to her own demons. She can’t help wondering if Jane is this direct and no-nonsense with everyone. If so, it’s no wonder Lincoln entrusted LJ to her care.

"Quite right." Tossing the empty bottle in the trash, she turns to regard Jane calmly. “But better safe than sorry. Any news?”

A quiet admiration gleams briefly in Jane’s blue eyes, then she nods briskly. “We have a lock on their current position.”

Sara stares at her. “Are they in police custody?”

“No.”

Sara’s heart lurches. “They’re free?”

“No.” Jane looks at her steadily. “It appears that they weren’t actually taken into custody by the Washington police.”

Sara frowns, shaking her head as she walks back to the chair she’d just vacated. “But the police cruisers were almost on top of us, I saw them!” She doesn’t want to ask the next question, but she has to know. “The Company?”

Jane shakes her head. “FBI.”

Sara is very glad she’s sitting down. Putting her elbows on her knees, she bows her head as the blood seems to swirl away through her body, her hands and feet starting to tingle coldly. Mild shock, the practical part of her brain informs her, but it doesn’t make her feel any less wretched.

She feels Jane’s hand on her shoulder. “This isn’t necessarily bad news, Sara.”

The unfamiliar gentleness in the other woman’s voice does nothing to reassure her. “How can you say that?”

“Because their father and I still have a few very influential friends in the FBI.”

Sara looks up at her, startled. “What are you saying? Are they in FBI custody, or are they not?”

“Aldo is working on that now,” she announces calmly, then lifts her hand from Sara’s shoulder, her tone once again brisk and efficient. “In the meantime, you and I have somewhere to be.”

Remembering Michael’s reassuring words - you won’t be alone, I promise you that - Sara shoots Jane a concerned glance. “Just the two of us?”

The other woman slips one arm through a shoulder holster – pistol gleaming silver against the white of her shirt, then fastens the buckle with practiced fingers. She gives Sara a wry smile that warms her normally cool expression. “You’ll have all the backup you need.” Picking up the jacket she’d earlier draped over the back of the kitchen chair, she looks at Sara expectantly. “Are you ready for this?”

Sara takes a deep breath. She’s no less nervous than she was when Michael asked this very same question as their train pulled into Union Station, but this time she doesn’t hesitate. “Let’s go.”



~*~



Despite being huddled behind the tinted windows of a large SUV driven by an obviously armed-to-the-teeth man with a shaved head and a neck as thick as her right thigh, Sara’s second ride through the streets of Washington is no less nerve-wracking than her first. There’s a second man – operative, she corrects herself – in the front passenger seat, scanning their surroundings in silence, his eyes hidden behind mirrored sunglasses. It had taken a moment for Sara to realise it was the man who’d first greeted her at the front door of Jane’s apartment building. The two men are very different in appearance, and Sara can’t help wondering if their roles within Jane’s team are just as diverse.

It’s hard to feel threatened in such company, but now there is nothing to distract her from the knowledge that Michael and Lincoln’s safety is still anything but secured. Knowing it will do no good to let the fear grab hold of her, drag her down until she can’t think straight, she takes several deep breaths and forces herself to focus on the sound of Jane’s voice.

“The manager’s name is Lois Hui.” Beside her, Jane seems to be doing a dozen things at once - scrolling through a PDA, making call after call on her cell phone, issuing directions to the man behind the wheel – but her manner is as unhurried and cool as always. “She’s been the owner of the business since 1975. Widowed since 1982. Two adult children, five grandchildren.” Her gaze meets Sara’s. “We’re working on the assumption your father would have made contact with her.”

“What if he didn’t?” Jane frowns, but Sara presses on undeterred. “Not to throw cold water on your assumptions, but my father wasn’t exactly the type of person to trust anyone outside his inner circle.”

“It appears your father knew quite well what he’d discovered could get him killed,” Jane points out gently. “Desperate people commit desperate acts, Sara. Sometimes they even put their trust in a stranger.”

The other woman’s tone is casual, but she doubts Jane says anything without first calculating the impact of her words. Swallowing hard, Sara turns her head to stare out through the tinted window. Jane is right, of course. It wasn’t only her father who had put his life in the hands of a stranger. Michael had done that almost every day inside the walls of Fox River. He had put his life in her hands the moment they’d met.

And now she was doing the very same thing, putting her life in the hands of a woman she barely knew. Running a distracted hand through her now-dry hair, she turns away from the window. “Why are you doing this?”

Jane blinks, obviously taken aback by the blunt question. “What do you mean?”

“I know why you’re going after The Company,” Sara says hastily. “But you’re looking after Lincoln’s son and now you’re looking after me.” Sara watches Jane’s face, hoping for a glimpse of an ordinary woman beneath the cool, professional exterior. “Both of which could possibly get you killed.”

“I was married once,” Jane says flatly, quickly, almost as though she wants the words out of her mouth and done with. “We had a child.”

It’s Sara’s turn to blink. She opens her mouth to ask where the husband and child are now, then realises she already knows the answer. Jane’s use of past tense and the sudden emptiness in her usually bright blue eyes makes it all too painfully clear. “The Company?”

Jane nods only once, an abrupt jerk of her head. “I was never able to prove it, of course.” She clears her throat, smoothes one hand down the perfectly smooth front of her dark jacket, long fingers straightening her already straight lapels, and Sara has the abrupt impression of someone pulling a cloak around themselves, hiding themselves from view.

Be careful what you wish for, she thinks unhappily. She had wanted to know more about this woman, why she would go to such lengths to protect someone else’s family, and now she wants nothing more than to forget what she’s just learned. "I'm sorry."

“It was a long time ago,” Jane tells her with an unmistakable air of finality, and Sara knows their conversation is over.

Silence sits between them until the SUV reaches the intersection that will take them through to the street where their target is located. “How is this going to work?” Sara’s voice sounds small and tight, even to her own ears.

“Hodges,” Jane nods to the man in the front passenger seat, “will check things out inside first, then watch the rear entrance of the teahouse.” Her gaze slides across to the man in the driver’s seat. “Pearce and I will look after things out front.”

Even toned down and in plain English, Jane's explanation of what's about to happen makes her shiver. Sara bites her bottom lip - an old habit she’d thought she’d banished years ago – in an effort to stop herself from telling Jane that she can’t do this alone. She knows that they will only have one chance to do this right, and this is the way it has to be done. “Okay.”

Jane gives her a reassuring smile. “You’ll be fine.”

“So you keep saying,” Sara mutters, wondering if it’s possible to feel any further away from ‘fine’ than she does at this moment. She doubts it. When the SUV pulls up a few doors down from their destination, she doubts it even more.

If she wasn’t so busy thinking of everything that might go wrong once she steps inside those doors, it would be quite interesting to watch her fellow travellers go through their final preparations. The ordinary wireless cell phone earpieces are exchanged for sleek black versions, their conversation peppered with terms she doesn’t understand and hopes she never does, the air of rapidly building anticipation. She watches from behind the tinted window as Hodges leaves them and walks swiftly to the entrance of the teahouse, suddenly looking like any other Washington inhabitant in search of an early lunch.

After a very long five minutes, Jane lifts her hand to her earpiece. “Yes?” She listens intently for a few seconds, then almost smiles. “Good.” She looks at Sara. “You’re good to go.”

Sara slowly unbuckles her seatbelt, then her hand finds her purse on the seat beside her. She and Jane had decided she needed to present as normal a front as possible, hence the casual clothes and handbag. Her stomach is churning coldly, but she thinks of her father, of the small paper birds in her purse, of promises and trust and love, and she opens the car door and steps out onto the pavement.

It’s been almost fifteen years since she last walked through this door. The space around her is filled with both cool and warm colours, the walls cluttered with an eclectic mix of artwork, the dark wooden tables arranged to give the illusion of privacy. The queue at the counter is six people deep, and she quickly scans the room, knowing she can’t afford to waste that much time. A black clad waitress, her hands laden with dirty china, is negotiating her way between two nearby tables, and Sara quickly seizes the opportunity.

“Excuse me, please. I’d like to speak to the manager?”

The waitress gives her a curious look, but nods. “Sure.” She gestures with her overburdened hands. “I’ll let her know as soon I ditch these.”

With nothing else to do but wait, Sara draws back into a quiet corner, gazing around the teahouse at the happily oblivious customers going about the simple business of eating and drinking. She inhales deeply, and the scent of fragrant tea and cut flowers instantly whisks her back in time. She remembers trailing her fingers along that wall there, the paint smooth beneath her fingertips. Her mother had taught her how to eat with chopsticks