Fandom: Prison Break
Character/Pairing: Sara Tancredi (implied Michael/Sara)
Word Count: 874
Spoilers: 2.12, "Disconnect"
Summary: There is only so much heat that a woman can take and Sara is no exception.
Author's Note: Prison Break and its characters have been manipulated here without the knowledge or consent of 20th Century FOX Television. I am not affiliated with the show, its production companies or cast members and no copyright infringement is intended.
The gaping wound on her arm is strangely curved, peeking out of the lengthwise slice in her sleeve in a leering way and Sara feels like it's grinning at her. A smile that is glossed over with her own blood, a reminder of the fact that she is in as much pain as she is now because of her own decision to toss herself out of a motel window - but it had been a decision to save her own life. It had been a leap of faith to the windshield of a parked car or an untimely end, met by a handgun and its menacing silencer.
Things could be worse, she tries to remind herself, as she slides the latch on the bathroom stall door into place and lowers herself to sit on the closed lid of the toilet. Things could be worse. It has been her mantra throughout the duration of this living nightmare she's found herself embroiled in. And yet every day, every hour, every minute, it is becoming harder to believe. If things could be worse, Sara would not be in a deserted public restroom tending to her own injuries. She would be in an emergency room at a hospital, like any other person. But she is not any other person these days. She is on the run. As much as the man who brought this situation down upon her shoulders.
For the thousandth time Michael's face flashes across Sara's mind, the disheartened expression he had worn when he'd poured his regrets out to her as they stood there along Butterfield Road. Back at Fox River Michael had made her days brighter somehow, simply by smiling at her. He had always been ready with a smile for her - a smile that made her want to smile in return, in spite of her troubles. Now rehashing looking into those anguished, wild eyes is all she can can do and it makes her queasy.
Or maybe she is only queasy from the pain, from the dull throbbing in her shoulder and hip from the hard landing and and the multiple cuts on her body as they all sting in unison, like a chorus without sound. She is lucky to have a box of matches in her purse - then again, she has half of her life in the deep recesses of the leather bag - and an unopened travel sewing kit. She had intended to use it to mend buttons that have popped off of her clothes at inappropriate times or a hole in the most unwanted seams of her jeans but it had never occurred to her that she'd need to mend herself. Sara has good dexterity with a needle and a piece of thread from all of the years of stitching. It has become second nature but never before has she been forced to put her technique to the test on her own skin.
She has withdrawn a new needle from the sewing kit, trying not to be weak and wish with everything in her that carrying local anesthetics in her purse would not be something both out of the ordinary and uncalled for in any other case. This is something she has to do. She cannot risk a trip to a hospital, not if Lance--if Kellerman is looking for her (and he surely is) and if the laceration on her arm won't stop bleeding on its own, she'll have to make it stop.
She braces the worn sole of her ballet flat against the door of the bathroom stall as she selects a lone match and then strikes it against the box. From nowhere a flame leaps to life and Sara brings the blazing tip to the hewn point of the needle. She knows that she needn't allow too long for the makeshift sterilization process, but she finds that her gaze is drawn to the way that the needle resists the fire. The same way that she should've resisted Michael, the way she should have resisted everything he managed to make her feel.
Sara feels a lump lodge itself in the center of her throat but it is less troublesome than the way that her gaze is beginning to blur. The needle can stand up under pressure, it can take the heat - why hadn't she been able to do the same? Was it because she had wanted to feel the fire, no matter how much she denied it to herself? It had been so long since she'd felt anything so strongly as her unwarranted connection to Michael Scofield and she'd thought that perhaps she could have the heat without the burn.
How wrong she'd been.
Sara finally removes the needle from the flame's reach and brings the match to her lips, expelling the fire in one sharp puff of air. As a spiral of smoke floats up in front of her face, Sara realizes the real difference between herself and the needle. It is not their varying levels of strength and resistance. It is resilience. Removed from the blaze, the steel is already cooling from its fiery assault and Sara is still burning. How much longer will it be, she wonders, until she is nothing but ashes?