Title: A Place Where I Can't Breathe

Author: Melissa

Fandom: Prison Break

Characters: Sara Tancredi, Michael Scofield

Rating: PG-13.

Setting: Season 4.

Muse-ic: "Xanax" by Maria Taylor, "Not An Addict" by K's Choice


The vial is cool in her palm.

She knows the longer she stares at it, the less chance she has time to go through with it. She resents herself for feeling as though having Michael here with her is not nearly enough - that no matter how hard he tries to soothe her pain, in the end only morphine has that power.

She tells herself it'd only be just a little bit, just to send her on a small high, not enough to kill her like it almost did the last time.

Last time feels like a lifetime ago.

She never believed in fairytales and happy endings, so it doesn't surprise her when she finds none of that with Michael Scofield. She knows she should because, as messed up their lives are right now, they're together and that should be all that matters.

She eyes the syringe lying on the edge of the sink and the tourniquet for a long time, wondering how she can be so weak.

Just a little bit.

Reaching for the syringe, she hesitates and her hand shakes as she brings the needle to the vial of morphine.

Releasing a deep breath she doesn't know she's been holding, she lets go of the vial and the syringe, the objects catering against the sink with a loud clunk. She braces herself on the edge, her hair curtaining her face as comprehension dawns on her.

It's not that hard to talk to him. It was easy before.

She breathes deeply through her nose. "Shit."

"You could say that."

His voice is low and gentle as he leans against the bathroom doorframe, with his hands in his pockets when she knows he wants nothing more than to snatch her away from the morphine and the syringe. But he knows better than that, she thinks dryly.

She half turns around but doesn't look at him. "I'm not going to do it," she says it almost on auto-pilot, like she did plenty of times before and that was actually a lie.

He grabs her wrist with so much care that she almost wants to weep. He thumbs the tiny scars inside her elbow (she knows they'll always be there to remind her) and suddenly she has the urge to hide from him, so he cannot see who she really is.

She claims to everyone she's a recovering addict when she's anything but an addict - plain and simple.

He pushes her unruly hair away from her face, like he once did in that infirmary for what feels like a long time ago and he searches her face but she can't quite meet his eyes.

"I, uh--" She closes her eyes and swallows hard and suddenly, it's difficult to speak. One look at his face and those eyes full of concern and she might cry until she has no tears, no strength left. She doesn't want to be weak. Not anymore.

He doesn't say her name, doesn't utter a word. He knows her more than she really wants to sometimes and it's infuriating but she doesn't want to fight him because he's not the person she has to fight against.

"I want to take it," she finally says, "but I'm not going to."

The sound of their breathings is loud in the tiny bathroom, the rest of the house deadly silent. The cheap fluorescent neon above the sink flickers and she turns her head, catching her reflection in the small and dirty mirror.

She's deadly pale and not just because of the fluorescent light - all about her screams unhealthy and she wonders how he can tell her she's beautiful when she feels clearly not.

They stand so close, yet so far away, and she fears that she's drowning and he can't reach her. It's not up to him to bring her to the surface, though, she's painfully aware of that fact but she wants to sink into his arms, into him and tell him that he's a drug that can be much more dangerous than morphine.

She looks up at him. "I'm not going to," she repeats and this time, it's not a lie.

THE END