I don't know what you're used to, Scofield, but anything less than a filet mignon isn't going to cut it with me.
It's a date.
When it finally happens, it's very different to the images he's projected onto the walls of his mind for so long.
They're not aboard the Christina Rose, or even aboard the HMS Minnow, but a modest charter boat that comes with a stash of cheesy mixed tapes and luridly patterned bedclothes.
They're not in Panama but in Baja, and the reality of finding himself in the very place he'd once plucked out of the air in a desperate attempt to calm her is something he still finds hard to believe.
Alone together at last, he and Sara slip into a strange, almost awkward dance, the dance of two people who know each other both intimately and hardly at all. So much has happened and yet not enough, and there are times when he thinks they're both trying to find the starting line in a race in which the starter's gun went off long ago.
Despite the cramped conditions of their temporary home, he feels the distance stretching out between them with every new sunrise. She watches him when she thinks he's not looking, her expression wistful, but says she's fine when he asks if she's okay. It seems only right that he return the favour, and he knows she doesn't believe him any more than he believes her.
They're not fine, neither of them, but they're together, and that should be enough. But it's been almost a week now, and he's beginning to wonder if enough actually means what he wants to think it does.
They've been alone together on this boat for five days now, and despite the odd tension between them, they've fallen into a comfortable routine. They sleep late, they eat, they swim, they read. They make love often, but not so often that he's lost count, because he can still easily remember every touch, every kiss, every whispered gasp of his name that falls from her parted lips. They talk about Lincoln and LJ, who are in Chicago sorting out numerous piles of red tape involving LJ's schooling and Lisa's will. They cautiously discuss Frank Tancredi and Bruce Bennett and Christina and Aldo. They even talk about Nika, but that conversation only makes him feel as though there are still so many loose ends he may never be able to tie up.
What they don't do is talk about them, and the absence of a plan for their future beyond this charter boat chafes at him like coarse sand against his skin. He loves her. He knows she loves him. So many things have gone wrong. Surely it's time for something to go right?
"Let me take you to dinner tonight."
Sara raises her eyebrows at him over the top of her paperback. "What about the fish you caught this morning?"
"It'll keep."
She marks her place in the book by dog-earring the page (he managed to stop wincing at that habit by the end of the second day, a new personal record for him) and looks at him steadily. "What's the occasion?"
"We had a date, remember?"
"Oh." She blushes, a delicate rush of pink staining her throat and cheekbones, and the air between them is abruptly charged with a rather different kind of tension. "I thought you'd forgotten."
I was just waiting for the ri He feels breathless, suddenly restless with anticipation, because this is the right time and he's tired of waiting.
Her long fingers curl over the creased cover of her paperback as she places it with exaggerated care on the bed beside her. "I have nothing to wear."
He smiles. "It's Baja," he tells her, letting his gaze sweep over her lightly tanned arms and legs. "You could go to dinner in what you're wearing now and still be overdressed."
She looks down at her faded jean shorts and t-shirt borrowed from his drawer, then up at him, the fear in her eyes suddenly replaced by a mischievous gleam he hasn't seen for a long time. "Even so, I should probably find a bra to wear." She smiles at him, a pleasant shudder of arousal shimmering through his body as he tries and fails not to glance at the swell of her breasts beneath the thin cotton of her t-shirt. "What do you think?"
"Uh, sure. Great." It's his turn to blush now, which is absolutely fucking ridiculous because he's a grown man, not some callow teenager trying to ask out the prettiest girl in school. "I'll give you some room to change," he says with a brisk wave of his hand at the cramped sleeping quarters, given them both an excuse for some privacy.
"Michael?"
She's standing beside the bed now, her hands twisting slowly together in an endless dance, her expression brimming with both hope and anxiety. He swallows hard against the sudden lump in his throat, struck by a violent rush of déjà vu, seeing her for the first time after her return from the dead, her features shrouded by the sunlight that streamed through the window of her erstwhile safe house. "Yes?"
She smiles. "Thanks for remembering."
His whole body seems to sigh, a tight knot of tension at the base of his neck unfurling and melting back into his flesh and bones. "My pleasure."
A tentative breeze plucks at the hem of Sara's pale blue dress as he helps her step down onto the dock, giving him a tantalizing glimpse of her tanned knees. Her hair whips across her face as she turns to him, her eyes sparkling. "You look great."
Vaguely disconcerted that she's stolen his line - and unconvinced her praise is warranted, given his lackluster ensemble of jeans and a button down shirt - he grins at her. "I like that colour on you."
She looks embarrassed, but undeniably pleased. "Prison blue," she quips dryly as she tugs at the halter neck of her dress, the logistics of which leave him in no doubt that despite her earlier remark, she didn't bother donning a bra for the occasion. "I only realised after I'd put it, but it's the only decent dress I have, so-"
Her words are tripping over themselves now, and he can feel the nervousness radiating from her. He puts his hand on her arm, and she falls silent. "Sara." She looks at him, her eyes dark in the half-light, and he feels as though someone's just reached into his chest and squeezed his heart tight. "Relax."
She closes her eyes, swaying lightly against him, and it feels like the most natural thing in the world to slip his arm around her waist. "Why is this so awkward?"
He turns his head to press his lips against her temple, inhaling the lingering traces of the shampoo that can't quite mask the intoxicating scent of her warm skin. "Because it's a first date. They're supposed to be awkward."
She laughs, a lilting sound that skims across his skin and spirals into the darkening, salt-scented sky above them. "Well, I guess we must be doing it right, then."
He doesn't bother fighting the impulse to cup her face in his hands, and when he touches his mouth to hers, he tastes both her lipstick and her smile. "It's about time."
They order seafood, which could seem strange because they've been eating grilled fish for days but, as Sara points out, char-grilled baby octopus and steamed chili clams are vastly different to fresh fish they've had to clean and cook themselves. Remembering the tedious task of cleaning blood and scales and innards from the wooden deck of their boat, he has to agree.
After seeing him cast a longing gaze towards a neighboring table, she insists he order a beer, telling him it's her sobriety that needs to be coddled, not his. He sips his beer and watches her as she gazes around the restaurant, and for the hundredth time he wonders how he managed to get the girl when all he did was make mistake after mistake where she was concerned. Catching his eye, she frowns, obviously puzzled by his intent stare. "What?"
I'm in love with you and I need to know if you're still with me because you want to be, not because you think you should. He clears his throat, then takes another sip of his beer. "What would you like to do tomorrow?"
She hesitates, her fingertips dancing across the rim of her water glass. "What are my options?"
"The ocean's our front yard, remember?" His words invoke a swell of memories he's not sure he's ready to face, and he sees the same halting emotion shining in Sara's eyes. "We can do whatever you want. Go wherever you'd like."
She slides her hand across the checkered tablecloth, her fingers entangling with his in a familiar caress. "All I want is to be with you."
He steels himself, the words like molten lead dripping off his tongue. "For how long?"
Her eyes widen, then her hand tightens around his. "Indefinitely."
A soft hum of triumph begins to buzz in his ears. "There are several definitions of indefinitely, Doctor Tancredi. Are we talking just a long time, or a time without end, or are we -"
"Michael." Looking at her, he sees the smile she's trying to hide beneath her sternest glare, and it reminds him very much of the way she used to look at him in Fox River. "Relax."
They can still see the lights on the shoreline when he drops the anchor for the night, the faintest strains of unidentifiable music drifting across the water towards them.
Kicking off her sandals, Sara comes to stand behind him, wrapping her arms around his waist, her chin pressed firmly into his shoulder. "I had a really nice time tonight."
He turns in her embrace, pulling her close as he leans back against the metal railing. The silky fabric of her dress is smooth beneath his palms as he glides his hands over the curve of her hips, but nowhere near as smooth as the skin of her thighs. She makes a choked sound of pleasure as he trails one fingertip along the lace boundary of her underwear, then shifts restlessly against him. "I don't usually do this sort of thing on a first date," she murmurs teasingly, then takes his earlobe between her teeth with a delicate precision that makes him shudder with delight.
Her lips taste of lemon and garlic and spice, her mouth opening beneath his like a flower in the sun, her hands sliding underneath his shirt and into his waistband until he's gasping her name and uncomfortably aware of the danger of indulging in such activities while standing upright on a rocking boat.
It takes less than a minute to spread his shirt on the deck of the bow, even less to lower them both to the still sun-warmed wood. She kisses him with a gentle hunger as he slides inside her, holding him closer than he may have once thought possible. She presses a kiss just above his heart, her voice as soft and warm as the touch of her lips on his skin. "Indefinitely means forever and you know it, Scofield."
And he does.