Disclaimer: I've no rights to Prison Break or the characters.
It was hot. Blazing hot, and Michael was dragging Sara on a 75 mile trek through the New Mexican desert to the place where he'd be meeting Lucas and Fernando. He wouldn't be worried about Sara, if she were feeling better. But Kellerman had tried to electrocute her into divulging information, and it had left her weak and tired. Michael wondered if it were all for naught. Would he be too late and end up missing his shot at freedom, or would he be able to make it in time? He didn't expect his friend and brother to wait on him. In fact, he hoped they would go on without him if need be. Sara was falling behind, and Michael stopped, turning to encourage her onward. But things weren't looking good. Sara's pace had slowed, and her face was flushed with heat and exertion. Sweat drenched the collar of her sleeveless white shirt, and her arms were red from sunburn.
"Sara, I'm sorry," Michael said, jogging back toward her.
Stopping, Sara looked up into Michael's face; the same face she'd pictured everytime Kellerman had shocked her with that damned iron. When she had taken that last breath, she didn't expect to wake up to see Michael hovering over her. But she had, and now, he was here, and she wasn't going to leave him again.
"I thought I could do this," she gasped, stopping to wipe the sweat from her eyes.
"It's just so hot," her words were whispered, and she looked like she was ready to drop.
Michael pulled the canteen from his shoulder. She had to have water, and unfortunately, they were running dangerously low. Unscrewing the cap, Michael held it up to Sara's mouth and helped her hold the canteen steady. When she'd had a good drink, Sara pushed the water away.
"I can't do this," she told him weakly, and sank to the sand.
"It's too far." Sara's pulse was racing, and she felt her temperature rising to critical levels.
Michael's heart dropped. He was killing her; just as sure as Kellerman had been in that hotel room-turned-torture chamber. He ran his hands through his hair. It wasn't too much further; Sara had made it most of the way. Yet, he knew he couldn't push her any more. She was dressed in heavy denim jeans; necessary to protect against the scorpions, mosquitoes and cacti that inhabited the desert.
"Sara," Michael said, moistening his dry lips with his tongue,
"I need you to do something for me, okay?" he said, and Sara looked wearily into his eyes.
Tears jumped into Sara's eyes, and her throat began to work. Shaking her head, she threw up her hands.
"I can't go any further, Michael. You go; I should've been dead already." She bit her lip, and continued,
"You saved me once. Now, save yourself."
Michael's head jerked back as if he'd been slapped. The horror of her words stabbed at his heart like a red-hot poker, and he shook his head, his own tears filling his eyes. Suddenly, anger replaced
shock, and Michael's jaw hardened.
"No way." He began untying the laces on Sara's tennis shoes.
"If you think I'm leaving you out here to rot, then you have no faith in me at all." His words were punctuated by the way he jerked the laces from their holes.
"What are you doing?" Sara asked, panicked.
"Making some modifications," Michael said, refusing to look at her as his fingers unsnapped her jeans.
Sara gasped, and tried to stand, but Michael held her down.
"Sit still." he said, his voice shaking with annoyance.
"What are you doing?" she asked again, and Michael shot her a deadly look.
"You think," he began as he grabbed the cuffs of her jeans legs and pulled,
"That I'm so cold hearted that I could leave you out here as a mid-day buffet for the damned vultures, don't you?" he asked, and pulled his knife from his boot.
Sara felt as though she were watching a horror movie of her own making.
Oh God. What was he doing?
Michael's face was stormy with anger, and Sara was petrified. He wasn't telling her what he was doing; he was just doing. Michael seemed to sense her thoughts.
"Its not what you're thinking," he said.