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20 March 2007 @ 06:48 pm
Holes (1/1)  
Title: Holes
Fandom: Prison Break
Character/Pairing: Sara Tancredi (implied Michael/Sara)
Word Count: 1,272
Rating: PG
Spoilers: 2.20, "Panama"
Summary: In the first few minutes after her world comes crumbling down around her like a donut dunked in milk, Sara begins to realize what her own decisions have cost her.
Other: This little piece came to me last night while I was lying in bed, still suffering a certain sense of grief and mourning over my beloved show's newest episode. Writing this was my preferred coping mechanism, I suppose.
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.

In the end, they don't get her a donut; not one, not a dozen. No amount of rabid and outraged shouting from Mahone had been enough to incite her arresting agents to stand in line at Windy City Donuts just so that Sara can assuage a craving. A craving she never actually had. She is in more trouble now than she ever has been before - trouble that she doesn't see a way out of - and no one on the righteous side of the law would spare her desires a second thought, not even if she begged.

But like white on rice, cliché as it is, the two suited officers responsible for taking her in had been drawn to the donut shop just across the street. Both men appear to be in their late thirties or early forties with well-rounded stomachs that protrude from below their navy uniforms and overlap their belts and holsters. Sara thinks with a certain amount of disgust that they are obviously no strangers to stops for unhealthy snacks during their hours of patrol. She shouldn't be surprised that one of the two officers collects paper money from his partner and meanders off, disappearing inside of swinging glass doors of the shop.

When he returns, the police car that Sara is locked in is still in the midst of a caravan of other vehicles. As both of the officers climb back into the front of the trooper, a bag of donuts is situated on the console between them. Sara hears the plastic rustle beneath greedy hands and is assaulted by the distinct scent that she associates with a bakery. Her stomach rolls and she pointedly turns attention to the window at her right, tuning out the jovial voices coming from the front seats. It's like she doesn't exist; like their duties don't exist.

Vaguely Sara wonders if this is what separates State Police from the Feds - the lack of awareness, the ease in carrying on. To them she's just another common criminal. To the suits, she is a black fly in their master plan. One that they're about to swat out of their way for good.

A mere few yards away, Agent Mahone is chatting in hushed tones with the stately black woman who had followed her here; the same woman who had cuffed her and spouted off her Miranda Rights. She can't hear what they are saying through the solid glass of the window but she knows that their conversation is quiet - almost secretive - and that it is about her. Two sets of eyes flicker to where Sara is held captive in a donut-scented hell and Sara doesn't avert her gaze. Instead she lets them meet her stoic stare, not bothering to dissimulate the anger she's feeling under a veneer of remorse and fear and regret. She won't masquerade for their sake.

Mahone has calmed down considerably in the few minutes since her arrest. He is no longer ranting and raving but there is a wild look in his pale eyes as he fixates them on her that makes Sara's blood run cold. Her hands are clammy and her fingers barely cooperate as she flexes them and feels the handcuffs pressing into the delicate skin of her wrists.

The distinct aroma of the donuts is growing stronger as the officers eat, waiting for their call to action - waiting for the orders that will come in regards to where to take their charge. Sara's stomach is at it again, clenching and knotting, and she isn't sure if the sense of physical illness is from her impending fate or because the pastries have reminded her that she hasn't eaten in over a day.

She decides that it could be either or both - it doesn't matter. The officers aren't going to pass her a donut out of sympathy and Sara doesn't particularly care. She never wanted a donut to begin with and she certainly doesn't want one now. Not when the deep-fried dough in its many varieties suddenly represents everything she will never have. Of the man and the life she will never have.

She will never wake up on white linens in a cozy California king to a breeze coming off of the Caribbean Sea and drifting in through an open window. Michael won't be stretched out beside her reading a newspaper written in Spanish - literature that they both struggle with. And he'll never offer her a banana cruller and heady black coffee to enjoy in bed.

She will never join Michael at a quaint kitchen table on a weekday morning in an American suburb. They won't surprise their children - a boy and a girl with dark hair and stunning beryl eyes - with donuts for breakfast instead of wholesome wheat cereal. Donuts with pink glaze and colorful sprinkles.

She will never have another chance to run with Michael at her side. To allow him the chance to protect her and take care of her like he'd wanted all along. Even that would be preferred to this. She will never again be riding shotgun in a stolen car - something she shouldn't long for. Lincoln won't repeatedly insist from the backseat that they make a discreet stop at a Dunkin' Donuts to abate their hunger until Michael relents. Sara won't sink her teeth into a cream-filled center and savor the sweetness and Michael won't tentatively kiss a smudge of chocolate frosting from her lips and remind her that everything will be all right in the end.

Sara had been so careful in the past few weeks not to allow herself to indulge in thoughts of the future. Not when it had been so uncertain. And in the few shameless moments that she let herself wonder about the days that lie far ahead - to dream about them - donuts had never been a part of the fantasies. But now her future is bleaker than ever and she can't seem to stunt the running start of her imagination.

Everything that flashes before her eyes as she listens to the drone of one of the policemen speaking over his radio is positively littered with donuts. I just wanted a donut, she'd told Mahone. But, God, she wants so much more. The donuts are just there, cluttering her thoughts, like some sickeningly sweet symbolism for her life.

She sees the pastry in her mind's eye and she imagines flashing neon arrows pointing at the donut itself - the delicious cushioning of her life, the parts that are supposed to be cherished - and at the gaping hole in the center. That gaping hole is Michael. The hole that makes the center of her existence seem so much less satisfying. Or, at least, whatever existence Sara can expect to lead once she's locked up behind bars, held at the scrutiny of unforgiving, unfeeling enforcers of the law.

This was her choice. But it's not what she wanted. Sara feels the engine of the car rumble to life below her and unbidden tears squeezing from below her lashes. She shudders violently as reality crashes home. Her eyes are straight ahead, cast to the world beyond the windshield, as obstructed as it may be from behind the partition, but she sees nothing. She only sees what is in store. She sees herself viewing the same world from behind bars - without him. Michael roaming the white sand beaches of Panama - without her. Without each other. Somehow Sara had never dreamed it would come to this. But it's a lock-up for a break-out. An eye for an eye.
Current Mood: mellowmellow
Current Music: "Speak Slow," Tegan and Sara