Perhaps you'll understand why I'm starting this story. It's mostly for myself and all of you, who were sad when the show ended, and most of all, when Michael died. I'm sorry but I can't get resigned to that. I'm not putting much effort into this fanfic, I'll just let my thoughts wander and dwell on the „what would have happened if..." scenario. I'll try to keep my characters in character and I'll try to write something enjoyable for all of us. I like drama and angst and my content is always M, regardless of story. (Maybe not the first chapter.) If you liked it, comment. Again, this is fanfiction, and not something I'll work on very much. I have a novel in progress but this will be a good relaxation for me, and also, will keep Michael alive in my thoughts. (That is how much I loved him. Go sue me.)

SONGBIRD

(Chapter 1)

The key turned slowly in the lock. As the door opened, the lazy afternoon sunbeams sneaked inside the motel room to fill the small space with a deep yellow sheen. The door closed as quietly as it opened, and the key turned in the lock once again.

As he placed the groceries on the bed, his hand automatically reached for the remote control and he switched the TV on for yet another evening of bad news, bad talk-shows and bad comedy. The sounds filled the silence on the room and kept him company in his self-imposed exile.

Pizza was comforting and so was beer, the tastes he had grown accustomed to over the past eight months. There was fruit and also a candy bar, microwave brownies and gum. After finishing an apple, he also popped some vitamins: he couldn't afford really healthy living, so he had to compensate with whatever he could. The background noise of a not very funny sitcom made him drowsy and as he settled comfortably against the pillow, he allowed his eyelids to fall occasionally, as if giving in to sleep.

In practice, Michael never fell asleep. He had learnt to stay vigilant twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. A master of disappearing, he was also aware of the fact that there would be people at his heels the moment his identity was revealed. Those people would be his family.

Laughter broke through the thin curtain of his consciousness and his eyes opened in terror. He sat up straight, his muscles tense and his whole body ready to defend himself, to flee and to hit anyone coming at him. He still had that from prison, customs he knew he would never shake. It took a few moments to realize there was no one in the room, there couldn't have been: it was a safe place, one that he changed every few days or so. Sometimes a week, depending on the neighbourhood. The motel he was currently staying at was a modest but decent establishment with just a few customers, mostly washed-out crooks and still hopeful couples. The walls were thin, but that was what he liked. He didn't mind the noises of people around him, in fact, he preferred hearing every sound anyone made in the hallway or in the adjacent rooms to a very quiet hotel. His senses had adjusted to all kinds of human sounds, he had learnt to be an expert on what was coming after a sigh, a scream, an object hitting against another, a flop on the bed, and irregular steps in the hallway. Keeping to himself and in the solitude of his respective motel or hotel rooms, he was exposed to very little physical contact with other people; whenever he was out shopping or taking the essential daily walk on fresh air, he wore sunglasses and a baseball cap. With the facial hair he had let grow over his chin and upper lip, he hoped he looked like a big loser no one should be interested in. That was exactly his aim.

Easing back on his bed, he flipped the channels until he found some music. He set it on low volume to not disturb his neighbours, and also to allow other noises to get through to him. He watched the TV screen for a while, not really interested in what music was playing.

At seven sharp, he took his books out of the small trunk he was travelling with. Taking a notepad out and a pen, he opened his French grammar and placed the dictionary in front of him. For an hour every Tuesdays, he had French; on Wednesdays, he studied Spanish, on Thursdays, economics. He had flyers and leaflets of free seminars and lectures in each respective area he hit, and he made sure to attend as many of them as he could. Laying low did not mean he was going to allow his time to be wasted. He made good use of it as much as he could, knowing that each minute was precious and each minute past was one minute down his self-inflicted sentence, his existence without Sara.

The sentence he was reading in the French grammar book disappeared from his eyes as his focus shifted and he found himself dreaming about Sara once again. He had no idea what she was doing, all he knew that she had moved to a small town in Montana with their son, now almost one, and that information came from just after Michael Jr was born. There was no way he could keep track of her doings, he didn't want to attract any kind of attention to himself. He also knew that as long as he didn't contact her, she was safe. Safe from the cops or any officials, safe from the FBI, safe from any questions anyone would want to ask, and most of all, safe from the pain that he would eventually inflict on her.

Michael forced himself to read on. Imitating the French accent, he read the passages aloud to himself, checking all the new words. He tried saying hello and asking for directions in French; he then formulated a wish to address an important official. It was going well. It made him feel alive and it kept him busy.

He heard laughter again, but this time, it was from just outside his door. He turned his head toward the sound to try and make out what it was exactly. A woman's laughter-peels rolled in the air, she may have been drunk or just happy. Then, it sounded like she was laughing, but through a blanket. There was a thud against his door, at which he froze on the bed, ready to jump up and act if needed. There was only silence next, he started to relax.

The pain came abruptly, a sharp, numbing pain that left him hunched over his books, the pen fallen from his hand, his thoughts completely muffled, just like the stranger woman's laughter. He felt dizzy and nauseated, there was blood throbbing in his head, louder and louder and louder, until it became bearable again and then slowly subsided. He couldn't kid himself any more, it was getting worse. He closed his eyes and inhaled a few times. The medication prescribed to him by some Indian doctor worked, but only in the beginning. Of course, his lifespan should have been a mere few months based on what they told him back then at the clinic. Compared to that, he was the king of the world.

Leaning back to rest, he thought of her and he thought of their son. He wondered where Linc was, whether he was taking care of Sara. They were a close-knit family and Michael was sure LJ was a great older brother to Michael Jr. In his thoughts, he even allowed Linc to pair up with Sara. Even if he managed to contact her, there wasn't much of a life waiting for them... Sometimes he questioned his right to just appear from out of the blue and remind her of all the horrible times they had been through. Prison life with all its horrors, the escape and the constant running, the dangers, the multiple assaults, the bodily and the emotional pain he had put her through. He was part of her past that she may want to forget completely; she had a son to take care of, a son who carried his genes alongside hers. That was enough to remind her of him. She did not need the actual Michael Scofield whose last words on tape were those of goodbye, and who was supposed to have died in an effort to help her escape. The shock of seeing him alive might be too much for her to handle, he knew that. He also suspected she could not forgive him for not contacting her earlier.

He knew all of that and more. Eight months was a long time to think and calculate, wonder and assume. Michael was a man of facts and figures, precision and certainty. He did not do well when it came to conjecturing; in his fantasies, everything was perfect, nothing was wrong whatsoever, everyone was happy and living in peace. And most of all, in freedom. But beyond his fantasies, there was the reality of his untreated illness that out of God's grace had allowed him to live a lot longer than the doctors predicted. Despite the fact that he was alive, there were fits and spasms and blackouts. Luckily, he always managed to keep them under control when outside his room, he kept pretending he was drunk or high, and people let him be. He looked like a vagrant and he tried to keep his shirts unwashed. Being smelly and acting like a tramp, he knew he would be fine.

He knew he had made the wrong choice back then. The worst choice ever. Assuming he had very little to live, he sacrificed himself to help her go free, literally and otherwise. Wanting to spare her the pain of seeing him die, he acted out his own death, after which he made sure to cover all his tracks and keep himself invisible. He knew that Linc and Alex would do everything in their power to find him if there was as much as a hint at his being alive. But back then he made a choice, that of severing all ties between him and his family, that of keeping them emotionally unharmed. The thought of self sacrifice had then seemed endlessly better than a man dying of brain cancer; he thought his son deserved a hero for a father and not a mummy crippled during his last weeks. He was not so sure about that now. With every passing minute doubt and longing emerged, the thought of Sara and that of his son he had never seen, never held in his arms, never heard speak or cry.

Music on TV was soothing his senses and he allowed his thoughts to rest, along his body. His eyelids fluttering in a constant effort to stay half open, he succumbed to a kind of sleep that lasts only for minutes, one that leaves the body exhausted but relieves the mind of some of its tension. Multiple times that, and he almost got enough sleep before dawn broke.

(tbc)