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07 August 2007 @ 08:12 pm
One More Day (1/1)  
Title: One More Day
Fandom: Prison Break
Characters: Sara Tancredi/Michael Scofield
Word Count: 600
Rating: G
Spoilers: 2.10, "Rendezvous," though with an alternate ending.
Summary: Sara comes to the quiet decision that she will give Michael the one more day that he's asked of her, and every day after.
Other: The concept involves what would have happened if Sara had never left the motel in Gila while a poor, unsuspecting Michael was in the bathroom. It really turned out to be more about why she would have chosen to stay rather than what would have happened had she done so. Thus, it's a little mixture of angst and fluff and not a whole lot of substance but the only way I could tackle this and not feel as if I was changing the complexities of their relationship at the time.
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.



"I may not have gone where I intended to go, but I think I have ended up where I intended to be." -Douglas Adams


***


I'm glad you came.

Michael's words carry the same weight as a heavy hand on her shoulder. They are not prehensile enough to make her stay if she wants to go but they are a plea sent straight to her conscience. As much of a plea as the memory of his fingertips weeping his entreaty into the skin of her forearm.

One more day, Sara. One more day, he had told her with a whisper of supplication that had squeezed her heart like a fist. That's all I'm asking.

He hadn't asked her not to go, but he had asked her to stay. And in some way, it had meant more. It had been enough to bind her.

Even now as she listens to the lull of running water in the bathroom, Sara is aware that she has the opportunity to leave. She can be gone before he knows it. Gone before she has time to regret the decision.

She can leave him a note, Sara thinks, as she pulls a paper crane from her pocket and fingers the rumpled edges, unfurled from their original and precise grandeuer.

She can say her farewell and never have to face him. She can dismiss herself and never have to see the misery of goodbye in his eyes, never hear the plight of parting in his voice.

But somehow Sara knows that she will not be punishing Michael for how he has wronged her in the past if she leaves. She will be only punishing herself; shaking the stubborn devotion of the only person she has left in an unfamiliar world where the sun doesn't quite shine and the ground slants below her with each uncertain step.

This dreary motel in Gila, New Mexico is the first place in weeks - maybe years - where Sara knows she is meant to be.

And as the recognition hits her with the velocity of a morphine high, the tiny room and its dark corners becomes a haven rather than a hell-fire of potential hazard.

With Michael, she stands a chance of mending. With Michael, she is someone who she feels she has forgotten after long days of disconnecting in the name of having the strength to leave her life behind.

With Michael, she is Sara. And when he finally opens the bathroom door, preceded by a curl of steam, she is still there.

She is sitting at the edge of the bed and standing at the proverbial precipice of recognition and when she looks up to meet his gaze, he seems to sense it.

There is a smile concealed in the dusky blue eyes that makes Sara's world slant until she is gripping the comforter below her with both hands to keep from falling. Instead of foolishly begging him to open his arms and be her safety net, she breathes deep to stall her sense of vertigo.

"Michael, I--"

"Sara?" He steps closer and she is unable to bring herself to feel foolish even as she reaches out to him, her fingers grazing his chest where she knows his heart is beating below grey cotton and tattooed skin and a cage of confining bone.

Sara notes the way her words catch in her throat when Michael reaches for her hand, tucking it below his own, flattening it until she feels the cadence she had been seeking steadily thrumming below her palm.

He is warm and solid and all she has and all she really needs and her voice throbs her unexpected sincerity as she looks at him, looking at her. "I'm glad I came, too."
 
 
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