Michael stares down at Sara, sweat clinging to her forehead, the tendrils of hair that have managed to escape the clip she'd used to pin them back now clung to her skin, refusing to let go. Her hand gripping his tightly, the circulation threatening to be cut off. His eyes following the pattern of his thumb, rubbing slow circles over the veins flowing with life.
The diamond of her ring digs into his finger as he grips her hand tightly, not wanting to lose her in the crowd, his other hand resting on the baseball cap of their son walking in front of him, the boy smacking his glove like he was ready to catch the ball.
The jersey he'd begged for his birthday lay across his back, a personalized Cubs memorabilia, size small, that still engulfed most of his body, with the name SCOFIELD bouncing with every step of the excited boy.
"Do you think I'll catch a ball?" He asks, the usually shy boy never at a loss of questions when it came to his dad.
"I don't know, buddy, we'll have to see," He says, squeezing Sara's hand with a knowing grin, as they reach the outfield and wait for batting practice.
Sara sits down in one of the seats, her legs crossed, a hand covering her mouth, her eyes closed as if concentrating, while Michael and Mike stand up against the wall with their gloves, identical hats adorning them.
Michael looks back at Sara to see her eyes closed.
"Are you still sick?" He asks her, concern written all over his face, her assurances this morning doing nothing to calm his nerves as he stood watching her fight back what was clearly still there.
"I'm fine," she assures him again, shoo'ing him to turn back to the task at hand, their son excitedly jumping and down at the prospect of getting a baseball.
But he doesn't believe her, instead momentarily leaving Mike to take the seat next to her.
"Sara, if we need to go, it's fine. I can take Mike another time," his thumb traveling the hills of her knuckles in a soothing gesture.
"You don't quit, do you, Scofield?" She asks with a smile, and his troubled eyes search her face for an indication of what she was talking about.
She turns to her purse, pulling out what looks like a blue t-shirt, and his brow knits together.
Placing the fabric in his hands, he holds it up to see it's a onesie, a Cubs onesie to be exact, and as he turns it over, it too is personalized with SCOFIELD on the back.
His face melts into one of knowing, the excitement dancing across his eyes unable to hide anything, and he looks up at Sara, bringing the piece of clothing to his chest.
"Surprise," she says.
Sara collapses back against the bed, completely out of breath, and Michael's free hand finds its way to her forehead, pushing back the resistant hair. Her eyes close in exhaustion as voices float around them.
"I don't remember having this much morning sickness when I was pregnant with Mike," she says, as her head sinks down to the toilet seat, the cool surface providing a relief from the sudden heat that had engulfed her in its grasp, forcing her to get sick.
His hand moves to pull back her hair, as he sits on the opposite side, staring at his wife cling to the toilet like it was were her lifeline.
"I read that means it's a girl," he says softly, as her eyes close, and she focuses on breathing, willing the nausea away.
"Oh yeah, which baby book did you get that from?" She teases, acknowledging the stack of books that line his side of the bed on the nightstand.
"You mock, but I'm going to be so informed, you'll be coming to me for answers," he says, holding up his finger in a matter of fact way.
She lets out a little laugh. And although he knows that she's done this all before, it's new to him, and he's determined to be the most over informed dad about all of this. Even spreading his enthusiasm to their son, Mike constantly spouting off facts to them about how big the baby is now.
"A girl, huh?" She asks, through closed eyes. "It might be nice to even the score out a little."
Sara brings her hand down, having been pierced with an IV, and rests it against her stomach, as what was once able to splay across the expanse of her skin now lay small in comparison. Michael's excitement having grown with every inch of her waist.
"You really think I'm showing already?" She asks him, sitting back in the patio chair, her hand instinctively coming to rest upon her small stomach.
Michael adjusts the cap on his head with a smile.
"I don't think, I know," he corrects, nodding his head to where her hand lay.
Mike shoves another french fry in his mouth, dripping with ketchup that lands with a plop on his shirt.
"Oops," he says with a frown.
"No big deal, bud," Michael says, passing him a napkin, as the boy goes back to eating.
"You don't think your mom is getting big, do you, baby?" She asks her son who stops eating, pausing his fry in mid-air, as he leans over, his sweet brown eyes looking at her.
"The baby's four inches big now you're supposed to look bigger," he says, matter of factly, spurting off a fact that he surely learned from his dad.
Michael laughs, knowing that he's right.
"You laugh now, mister. But you've never seen me when I'm huge…" She starts, but immediately stops when she sees his face fall, a contemplative look overtakin him. "Michael, I didn't mean…" she pleads, reaching across the table for him, his elbows resting on the arms of the chair, his hands pressed up against his mouth. "I'm sorry."
"It's okay," he assures her, glancing over at Mike, who's picked up on what they're saying, and stops eating.
"I haven't seen her when she's huge either," Mike offers, a shy smile thrown at his dad.
Michael smiles into his hands at his son.
"A first for us both then, huh?" And Mike nods with a grin, shoving another fry into his mouth.
The voices around them blur into one, the encouragement having been blocked, focusing only on each other and the task at hand. The beeping of the machine is the only sound cutting through the fog, a steady reminder that everything was okay, the death grip and grimace only temporary for the promise of forever.
Michael adjusts his glasses, his day having started late this morning, and a frantic rush had left him with no other option than to sport the glasses he never really cared for.
He put on a brave face for Mike, having a matching set, but his mind often mocked him, that he was old, that grey hair and glasses made him too old for this.
"You nervous?" She asks, laying down on the exam table, shirt pulled up, and cold gel being spread on her expanding stomach. No longer able to deny that she was most definitely showing, even if it were only a little.
"No," he scoffs, and then adjusts his frames again, his idle hands needing to have something to do in that time of uncertainty.
The last time they were here, he'd cried, and he wasn't even ashamed to say so. The sound of their baby's heartbeat a sound that he found his own heart thumping to the beat of.
But the image being displayed to him right now, a baby that actually looked like an actual baby, that was a moment he'd gladly have tattooed in his mind for the foreseeable future.
A tiny hand resting by its head, spread out, as if counting down the months until he could meet this sweet baby.
"It looks like the baby's waving to you," Sara jokes, swatting at his stomach, until he bends down, glancing over at her, but only briefly, unable to take his eyes off the baby.
"That's…ours," he says, choked up, a goofy smile present. And he can see the grin of his wife out of the corner of his eye at his comment. As their hands intertwine, and grabbing her's with both of his, as if gripping her extra tight would somehow transfer to the baby inside her.
That steady swoosh from before now present in the form of a beep, keeping time with its sound. The doctor giving her a brief break, and she's fed an ice chip, that she gladly sucks on, the only form of sustenance she's had in hours, her once odd cravings giving way to relishing the smooth, wet relief of crushed ice.
Sitting on the couch, her feet rest on the coffee table, Mike sitting quietly beside her playing his video game, she leans her head to the side, eying Michael in the chair next to her.
"Yes," he asks, not looking up what he's reading, but sensing that she's looking at him.
"I'm hungry," she starts, which is how it had been lately. He nearly bites his lip to keep the grin from appearing, knowing that her next request was likely to gross him out completely.
"What can I get for you?" He asks, putting down his phone, popping an M&M into his mouth from the package resting in his lap.
"Not that," she gestures to the peanut treat he always seemed to have with him.
He laughs, never getting tired of her relentless teasing over his snack of choice.
"Pineapple," she says, her eyes going wide at the thought.
He cocks his head, a seemingly normal request having been asked of him.
"…with mayonnaise," she finishes, and that catches Mike's attention.
"Eww," her son says with a cringe.
"Eww?" She taunts. "What are you talking about that sounds so good," she says, leaning over to tickle the boy. He grabs at her hands, giggling uncontrollably on the couch. Finally surrounding, she settles back into her cushion, her hands coming to rest on her bump.
"Pineapple with mayonnaise?" He asks, hoping she'd change her mind, but she nods at him instead. "And you make fun of me for putting it on pizza…," he dares with a wink towards her.
And he only slightly grimaces with Mike as he watches her smother the fruit in the condiment.
"Okay, Mama, one more push, and the head should be out," he can hear the doctor say, but all his focus is on Sara, who seems to be struggling, an exhausted, frustrated look haunting her face. Her hand is ghost white against his own, and her head is shaking back and forth as if she's saying no.
"This is impossible," she huffs.
He looks up at her, surrounded by pieces of the crib, as she sits with the manual, reading out loud to him the instructions.
"I mean this doesn't even make sense. There are so many parts. How is anyone supposed to figure this out?" Her face is almost amused at the sheer amount of directions for a relatively simple looking contraption.
"Did you forget you were married to a structural engineer?" He quips, as if this is going to be a piece of cake.
She flops down the manual, her legs crossed, and her stomach hanging over, touching her feet as she bends over to get a good look at all the pieces.
"Oh yeah? So where does this piece go?" She says, grabbing a stray piece that she couldn't even identify as to what part of the crib it was.
He grabs the piece, twisting it around with his long fingers, a squinted look appearing, as he tried to figure out what the hell he was looking at.
"I've broken out of a dozen prisons, you'd think I could figure out how to put together a crib," he says, making a grab for the manual that still left him puzzled, defeat leaving him frustrated at being stumped.
"What are you guys doing?" Mike asks, entering into the room, before coming to sit in his dad's lap.
Michael wraps his arms around him, placing the manual in front of both of them.
"Trying to figure out this crib situation," he mumbles, concentrating on the task.
Mike looks at the picture in front of him, and then searches the room.
On his hands and knees he crawls to a set of pieces.
"It's easy, you just put this piece here…" he says, easily gliding the pieces together after only seconds of looking at the instructions.
"Our son's a genius," Sara confirms, throwing her hands up in the air.
Michael leans down, his forehead, coming to rest on her sweaty head, his lips a whisper away from her ear.
"You can do this," he mutters into her. "You're the strongest person I know," he assures her, the thought of her doing this alone last time leaving him shuddering at what was taken from him.
Her eyelashes flutter shut, a deep sigh at his words rattling against him.
He whispers quietly against her, his hands smoothly planted on the curvature of her stomach, the soft kicks against his hand leaving him with a toothy smile, as his words excite the baby.
"I can't wait to meet you," he quietly says in the dark of the night. "I wasn't here for your brother's birth, and I can never replace that, but I'm gonna be here for you both, always," he continues, this kick stronger, one that he assumed would jolt Sara awake, as he peeks up at her, only to find a set of hazel eyes staring right at him with a teary grin.
"Don't stop now," she encourages, placing her hand atop of his. "Baby likes your voice," she says with a nod.
A shy heat covers his face at being caught of his nightly talks with his younger child. Not wanting the baby to feel left out, given how frequently he chats with Mike.
"Did I tell you that you have the most amazing Mom?" He says to the baby, his lips an inch away from her skin, sending goosebumps across her whole body, earning him another kick.
"Your dad's pretty amazing too," Sara says, squeezing his hand.
Sara nods, heaving herself up into position again, waiting for the go, and then she's pushing, pulling all the strength left her small frame, except for the guttural sound coming from her throat in the form of the name "Michael."
"What about Lily?" He asks, stopped at a red light, his hands drumming on the steering wheel, Sara sitting shot gun, thumbing through one of Michael's books that he'd bought at the beginning of her pregnancy.
"Too cutesy," she immediately shoots down.
"Okay," he says, his sunglasses blocking his disappointment at yet another name being turned down. Although, in fairness, he'd shot down several of her names too.
"At this rate, this baby isn't going to have a name," she declares, neither of them being able to decide, much like last time. "So stubborn," she jokes with him.
"I'm not stubborn, I just want a good name. One with meaning that isn't Sara Jr.," he jokes back at her, in reference to the argument they'd had when she was pregnant with Mike.
"Yep, this baby is gonna be nameless. We should just name him or her Michael too and call it a day," she says with a wicked grin, knowing how much he had fought with her not to name Mike after him, only conceding eventually after she'd promised him not to use the nickname Junior.
"We'll find a name" he says, turning to her, as the light turns green, grabbing her hand. "Just have a little faith."
He's not sure what he had been expecting, the thought of seeing his child be born nothing more than dream that he'd replayed over and over in his mind for the last nine years, now a reality.
He stands enamored at the little girl resting in his arms, her whole body not even as long as his forearm, his hand supporting most of her weight.
Her dark hair peeks out from her little hat, her pink lips puckered, blowing little bubbles at him, the awe of the moment only just now hitting him.
Her soft cries at echoed through the room, and quickly settled as Sara told the nurse to place her into his arms first, no longer willing to deny him the moment.
He'd hesitated, afraid he'd hurt her, but upon Sara's nod, he'd delicately wrapped his arm around his baby, his little girl, who had already imprisoned his heart in his little fist.
His finger moves to trace the lines of her chubby face, her long lashes closed, at his path of discovery. Upon stroking her tiny hand, it opens, capturing the tip of his pointer finger, and closes, wrapping him around her finger, her grip not even big enough to fit all the way around, but strong, like her mom, he decides.
He doesn't even realize he's crying until traitor drops onto her blanket, and that's when he glances up to find Sara, a wide, dimpled smile staring up at him, her hand on he chest, like her heart would burst from its place if she took it away.
"She's perfect," he tells her, looking back at the sleeping girl, as she continues holding his finger, the combination of a lifetime's worth of suffering, the fight for family, leading to the meeting of Sara, the birth of their son, and eventually the birth of their daughter, this moment, and suddenly everything finally made sense.
It's only when Lincoln brings Mike in, that he sits on the bed next to Sara, passing the baby over to her, Mike climbing into his lap.
"This is your sister, Mike," Sara says.
"Hi, Isla," he says, her little first wrapping around Mike's finger the same way it had Michael's. His babies already sharing a bond that he hoped they would, like him and his brother.
"Isla?" Lincoln asks from the foot of the bed.
"Isla Faith," Michael whispers.
"Scofield," Sara adds with a smile across the heads of their babies.
Their family finally free, finally complete.
xxx
A/N: hello. hi. baby girl scofield was an idea that i've had since way back when michael faking his death and keeping away from his family because he was being blackmailed was nothing more than a headcanon i had to help cope with the ending they gave us.
hopefully you all enjoy.