Till We Meet Again
"Move along, ladies!" The call rang in Michael's ears, making his head ache even harder than it already did. "Rec time's over!" He crouched against the fence, huddled into himself, unable to find the physical strength to move.
"You okay, papi?" Sucre's voice sounded near him, too close for Michael's comfort, and he lifted his gaze to meet his cellmate's. Fernando blinked as he noticed how bloodshot Michael's eyes were. "We're going back in, you hear the C.O.?"
"Yeah," Michael muttered, his voice hoarse. He could barely swallow, his throat felt like it had been ignited. He took a deep breath, grabbing the fence with his right hand and struggling to pull himself to his feet. Sucre grasped his arm and helped him the rest of the way, looking concerned.
"You don't look so good, Fish," He told him, holding onto his arm as they walked clumsily towards the slow line inside the penitentiary. "You feeling okay?"
"I'm fine," Michael replied unconvincingly, ripping his wrist away. He breathed in deeply and wiped the perspiration away from his temple. "Trust me."
"I can't trust you, man," Sucre protested. "You look sick."
"'Sick'?" A voice inquired from behind them. "Did I just hear the word 'sick' slip past your lips, boy?" T-Bag. Michael groaned inwardly and turned to face the other prisoner.
His hair disheveled, his white T-shirt dirty, he looked just as disgusting as he did every other day. "Mind your own business, T-Bag," Michael mumbled, barely summoning the strength to speak more than a few words. "Nobody's sick."
T-Bag raised his eyebrows, surveying his sickly appearance with a disbelieving expression on his face. He swiped his tongue over his lips twice and smirked. "Sure, pretty, sure," He replied, smiling wider. "Just keep it that way. 'Cause we are gettin' outta here on schedule, ain't that right?"
Michael started walking away. "That's always been the plan." He stumbled a little and Sucre grabbed his arm again. Michael looked to his friend, giving him the slightest hint of a grateful smile. Sucre nodded briefly in acknowledgment.
The minute they reached Cell 40, Michael staggered in and collapsed onto his bunk, nausea consuming his insides. He was vaguely aware of Sucre watching him worriedly, but he ignored the burn of his cellmate's gaze. He was just...so tired.
"Not sick, you say…" T-Bag remarked. "Well, I'd say that's a sick puppy right there." Michael closed his eyes in irritation and huffed out a disgruntled breath.
"Hey." Sucre's voice was short. "Leave him alone." T-Bag didn't back down for a minute, only doing so when Sucre stepped forward menacingly with a large fist raised. "I mean it."
"Okay, okay, Mexicano," T-Bag backpedaled. "Keep your shirt on. I'm goin'."
"Puerto Rico…" Sucre grumbled under his breath as the other convict sauntered away. "You think he'll ever stop?" He complained to Michael, who lay on his bunk looking half-conscious. "Dios mio, papi…" Sucre sighed. "You look…"'
"I know." Michael grunted, pulling himself into a sitting position with effort. "But I need to go in...tonight." He shot a meaningful glance at the wall of their cell.
"Tonight?" Sucre's voice was incredulous. He reached forward and pressed the back of his hand against Michael's forehead. "Amigo, no. You're burning up. You can't."
"I don't have a choice." Michael argued. "We're already three days behind schedule, and I need to close that gap now." He struggled to his feet, one hand clasped tightly on the edge of the top bunk to keep himself steady. "The sink." He told Sucre after a moment of silence.
Another pause commenced, and Sucre bit his lip before nodding quickly. He hurriedly pulled the sink from the wall, revealing the hole behind it. Michael appeared over his shoulder, breathing laboriously. Fernando shot him a look of concern over his shoulder. "C'mon, papi…" He pleaded. "Look at yourself."
Michael swiped his hand across his sweaty forehead and inhaled shakily. "I don't have a choice." He repeated deliriously. "Don't have a...a choice…" He staggered, eyelids fluttering. Sucre shot to his feet and caught him mid-fall.
"Michael?" Sucre exclaimed. He offered no response, completely and utterly unconscious. "Dios mio…" Sucre repeated anxiously. "Dios mio, dios mio...Michael!" He shook his cellmate's shoulders, desperate. Sucre stumbled to his feet and clutched at the bars of the cell. "Guard! Guard!"
"Doc, you in?"
The C.O.'s voice sounded from around the corner, and Sara lifted her head. "Over here." She responded, setting her pen down and climbing to her feet. "Something wrong?"
"Think we've got another mono patient." The C.O. said. "Scofield this time."
Sara hurried to help as the guard appeared, holding down a winded Michael Scofield on the stretcher. "What happened?" She asked as the two of them wheeled Michael into the hospital room.
"His cellmate alerted us," The C.O. replied, grunting as they hoisted Michael onto the bed. "Scofield was out cold when we got there, but he woke up on the way here."
Sara nodded in acknowledgment, holding Michael's shoulder as she checked him thoroughly. "Thanks," She told the C.O., which was her signal to him to leave them. He got the message and departed. Sara turned back to Michael, who was now wide awake, looking miserable. She pressed the back of her hand against his burning forehead, and he closed his eyes. "How're you doing, Michael?"
He sighed, opening his eyes. Sara pursed her lips as she saw the exhaustion in his gaze. "Don't feel good." He admitted, his words slurred slightly.
"I know, Michael, I know," Sara responded. "It's just a bout of mono that's going around. It happens within large groups of people."
"Thought that was the 'kissing disease'?" Michael attempted to joke. He sounded only half-amused as he said it.
Sara laughed just for him. "It can be passed on in other ways besides kissing." She responded. "Coughing, handshakes, the usual. Looks like you just got too close to another prisoner who was infected."
"I'll be more careful next time," Michael promised. Sudden realization dawned in his eyes, and he attempted to sit up. "Thanks, Doc, but I gotta go…"
"Oh, no, you don't," Sara warned, pushing him back down onto the bed. "You're staying right here for tonight." Michael tried to protest, but she cut him off. "I mean it. I will handcuff you if I need to." Michael relented, but his expression was completely stressed. "You can relax, Michael," Sara told him, putting a hand on his shoulder. "I'm going to give you a mild sedative, okay? Just so you can rest easily."
It was obvious that he was unwilling, but he nodded nonetheless. "I'll be right back, okay?" Another nod. Sara stood and left the room without a second glance back at her patient.
Michael closed his eyes and slammed his head back into the pillow of the hospital bed. "Dammit…" He growled to himself. This was Sucre's fault. If his cellmate hadn't alerted the guard…he would've recovered for the most part and would be halfway through the tunnel by now. The light was fading outside, and Michael's eyelids were growing heavier. He blinked several times, refusing to fall asleep.
He had managed to fall into a fitful doze, which he didn't realize had happened until Sara returned. "Looks like you hardly need those meds, huh?" She said, smiling as she prepared the syringe filled with the sedative.
"Looks like," Michael agreed. "So I guess you don't need—"
"Not falling for that, Michael," Sara interrupted him. "Give me your arm." Disappointed, Michael obeyed. He felt the small prick of the needle and he gritted his teeth. "And we're done." Sara said, treating the puncture to his arm. "Okay, lie back." She laced her hand around one side of his neck, pushing his head down gently against the pillow.
"How long does it last?" Michael asked slowly.
"It'll wear off before you wake up." Sara told him. "Like I said, it's mild. All it will do is help you fall asleep." She still hadn't removed her hand from his neck, and as she began to, he stopped her with his fingers. Sara looked at him with a questioning expression, but his eyes revealed nothing in their depths. She smiled a little, and moved her hand to his cheek. "Just sleep, Michael, okay?"
His eyes slid closed at her touch, and she gently rubbed the skin underneath her fingers. Soon enough, his head fell slightly to one side and he was asleep. Sara didn't take her hand away for a few precious moments, watching Michael's sleeping face.
He seemed so innocent lying there…but Sara could tell. She could see the secrets clouding him…the questions that only he knew the answers to. And she wanted to know them too.
She didn't stay that night. Sometimes she would if the case was serious enough. But she was pretty sure that Michael would sleep through the night. But she told the C.O. on her way out to keep an eye on him in case he woke up.
Sara didn't sleep much that night…all she could think about was the contentment Michael seemed to experience when he had been with her.
"Any change?" Sara asked of the C.O., who was just finishing his night shift and looked a lot like he'd been drinking coffee by the bucketful.
He gave her a quick shake of his head. "Nope, don't think he even changed position once. Guy's out like a light." He took another sip of his coffee. "You gonna turn him back on? Bellick's gonna want him back in Gen Pop."
"He'll be released when I say so," Sara answered curtly. She had never appreciated Bellick's constant pressuring. It was like he thought she didn't know how to do her own job. Not to mention the fact that he never really liked when the prisoners spent the night in the infirmary. It had to be either Gen Pop. or the SHU, which, to Sara, was just inhumane. "You tell him that if he asks."
"Whatever you say, Doc." The C.O. answered.
"I'll be with Scofield." She told him, already making her way into the room where Michael lay asleep. She set down her bags and settled into the chair at her desk, glancing at him momentarily before flicking her gaze to the unfinished paperwork in front of her.
She took hold of the nearest pen, getting to work on Michael's report. When she looked up again, his eyes were cracked open slightly and he was watching her hazily. "Michael?" She stood and hurried to his side. He blinked several times, clearly trying to collect his bearings. "Hey." She touched his shoulder, which seemed to pull him back into reality. "How do you feel?"
"Better." Michael answered, his voice weak as he hoisted his body completely upright.
"No chills, no headache?" He shook his head. "Sore throat? Nausea?" She was just listing the symptoms now. Another shake. "So you feel completely back to normal?" Sara inquired with a disbelieving expression as she wrote on his forms.
"Just a little tired." Michael said, sounding stronger when he spoke this time. "I really think I can go back to Gen Pop."
"You're not going back until I say so," Sara replied, smiling a little behind her clipboard. "I need to check your temperature, then I'll reach my verdict. How does that sound?"
"Sounds good." Michael responded, smiling that little half-smile that made Sara's heart perform somersaults. It somehow seemed so real, so genuine, just in one small expression.
Sara retrieved a thermometer from her desk and gestured with her hand. "Open up." The moment she stuck the instrument into his mouth, an awkward silence commenced between them as they waited. Michael held her gaze in that small amount of time, hardly blinking. She glanced away several times, flustered, and he looked amused each time she did.
The short, high-pitched sound came from the thermometer and she slipped it out of his mouth. "99.2," She read. "Well, it's not considered a fever, so I suppose you're free to go. I'll call in a guard."
"Sara." Michael said as she stood. She looked back, questioning. "Thank you. For…everything." Sara wasn't quite sure what he meant by that, but she nodded nonetheless, giving him a small smile before departing the room.
Michael sat back on the cot, blinking away the remainder of his fatigue. Last night hadn't been a total waste…he had felt something with Sara that he didn't think he'd ever really feel. And he liked it. He remembered that look on her face just before he'd succumbed to sleep…and he knew he never wanted to forget it.
"Scofield, let's go." Michael looked up at the C.O., who held a cup of cheap gas station coffee in one hand. The other held a pair of handcuffs. He stood, looking to Sara as he passed her.
Sara watched Michael as the guard cuffed his wrists. "Till we meet again." He said, that half-smile forming once again on his face. She nodded, but did not reply. Only as he was walking away did she speak.
"Till we meet again."