The kind of thoughts Sara has past midnight, when it's been several months since she last got more than five hours of sleep, should probably be dropped into some red box and join the full list of Things Sara Should Not Be Doing.
Red for forbidden, of course, and for the hot flashes that sometimes steal into her chest, when Michael's eyes take her by surprise, latching on hers with solemn, brain-melting intensity.
He's been at the infirmary for a few nights, now, so she could give the third-degree burn on his back as much care as he could possibly get outside a hospital.
It's a little over three a.m. The row of beds next to Michael's are all empty, and the guard who'd been supervising has gone home long ago. Sara doesn't usually work so late, but there's some paper work to catch up on –
Liar, a voice reproaches inside her head.
You like it here. Just admit it. The dusky atmosphere of the room, unlit except for small lamp on her desk. The stifling summer air that smells of peroxide and medicine, like the inside of her parents' bathroom cabinet. Funny that she's worked in hospitals for so many years and still, the smell that's called to mind is always domestic. And Michael's deep, regular breathing, making the room come alive, arousing the sort of thoughts Sara is trying to ban.
In the past few days, Michael has been mostly sleeping and docilely responding when required – eating his meals without reluctance, sometimes actually cracking a joke, with that insolent smile that has somewhat remained genuine.
Sara reckons Michael hasn't been doing too much smiling in Fox River, except with her.
And I shouldn't be happy about this.
Nor should she enjoy to just sit here and work, lulled by the quieting rhythm of her patient's breathing. Tomorrow, she'll be home by midnight like a good girl. Like Cinderella. Her least favorite fairytale princess growing up, though she used to approve of her defying the rules.
Some rules should be obeyed, of course.
Right now, Sara can think of a good number of examples but she'd rather not mention them.
A shiver creeps up her back at the sound of something stirring behind her – behind, in the darkness, where Michael Scofield has been sleeping undisturbed for the past four hours.
Sara jumps to her feet and, out of habit, fights off any indication of surprise. Power is everything within these walls. Anyone, from the staff to the inmates, will tell you that.
"Michael," she says hotly. Crimson climbs to her cheeks at how intimate, how obviously erotic his name sounds in her mouth, at night, when no one is watching.
The young man is standing in front of her, a couple of steps away from his bed. Wearing only the lower half of his uniform, the navy-blue trousers, and the white patch of bandaging in his back which she's changed this evening.
Oddly enough, Michael doesn't look uncertain or feverish – he doesn't look afraid, or actually fresh out of sleep.
"You should be in bed," she says.
Gentle but firm orders. The white blouse she's wearing is supposed to mean something. Authority. Distance.
Even in the ambient darkness, she can make out the labyrinthine patterns of his tattoo, Knights and Angels running up his upper body like a strange and secret map. But where to?
"I feel fine," he says, and sounds steady enough.
Sara swallows at the candid look on his face. In truth, there's no reason why he shouldn't be cuffed to his bed, except that she didn't expect he'd be in a state to stand at least for another twenty-four hours.
Now, she has to be very careful about what she does. Situations like this one can turn in the blink of an eye.
And she doesn't like, really doesn't like, the sort of thoughts that are popping into her head and straight into her Forbidden box.
Though he's by no means breached the respectful distance between them, Sara detects his smell amongst the slightly unpleasant odor of extreme neatness in the infirmary. Over the past few days, she's gotten used to it. Michael's smell is warm, very subtle, a hint of sweetness. Individual smells are always an indescribable core that can't be fully separated from your experience of someone – how influential it can be over your appreciation of them, Sara can't say. All she knows is the sight of Michael's calm face, blue, patient eyes, and that tangle of aroma that has been with her for these past forty-eight hours, all guide her into a helplessly trusting state.
"It's late," he remarks.
For a moment, she can't think of an answer.
"It's usually someone else watching me for the night shift." He doesn't add that he's usually restricted and unable to wander about.
They both leave that fact alone, and like all things that people agree not to pay attention to, it falls into oblivion.
"Yes." Sara says, testing the waters between them. "Lots of paperwork. I'm about finished here."
She wants her voice to sound sure.
Right now, more than ever, they need to be doctor to patient, inmate to staff.
Not man to woman.
Michael nods. "Then, you're leaving."
Just after she's called a guard so he can come and keep proper watch. Yet, Sara's hands remain frozen along her side, making no move to reach for her pager, her throat too dry for an answer.
It isn't right, what she feels, that sudden breaking down of barriers, as if night alone has stripped them both of their respective ranks.
Don't, she says to herself, with as much strength as she can. Don't you dare. But it's to no avail – in this room, with no other eyes on her than his own, Sara doesn't feel, doesn't react as Michael's doctor, can't bring herself to be the sheer embodiment of the white blouse on her shoulders.
They haven't been alone like this, really alone, since the riot, some weeks ago. And then, the moment was so fleeting, a dreamlike haze of adrenalin and strange comfort in the ceilings of the prison, it was easy not to think about when it was over.
Now, there is no one there to judge them, and Sara's tired mind watches helpless as her walls collapse, so nothing stands between them but the stark truth of who they are.
He shouldn't be here, she thinks, despite herself, despite what she's read in his file about his being a dangerous man. Michael Scofield doesn't belong in prison.
His eyes on her are quieting, respectful. Where does he think she belongs?
"I should –"
"Of course."
And yet they're bridging the distance between each other, feeling their bodies carry them closer as if witnessing a force of nature stronger than them both.
It's only the contact of Michael's lips that awakes her fully, without drawing her out but sinking her further into this irresistible rush that makes the somewhat abrupt clash of his body against hers feel inevitable.
For a moment, she's only aware of them both as biological agents. She experiences their first kiss like a chemical reaction, studies the response of her body, her ragged breathing at the hot saliva patterns Michael leaves on her skin. It seems completely disentangled from moral or professional concerns.
So there's no point, really, in trying not to kiss him back, in wondering whether she wants this and how much trouble they could both be in. Those thoughts belong in another reality, one she and Michael are mindlessly floating above, like stray pieces finding their way towards each other in space.
Michael's hands skim over her front, rolling up the fabric of her shirt until she can feel his fingers traveling up her flat stomach, her rib cage, then the small curve of her breasts. She hears herself gasp as his thumb brushes her nipple over her bra.
By then, what's happening is starting to sink in –
Kissing an inmate. Committing a professional fault.
Michael's chest feels burning through her clothes, and in some still alert part of her brain, she's aware of how quickly this could go out of control –
Control?
Who is she kidding?
Is this control, allowing her patient, a convicted felon, to stifle her moans with his mouth, even as she is rocking her hips against him, tugging at his bottom lip with her teeth?
How she wishes she had the excuse of passivity, the comfort of denial. Pretend this was so surprising, her body never gave her a chance to react, instead of bearing witness to how much she wants this, of having to acknowledge her inexplicable but undeniable attraction for Michael Scofield.
How did this happen?
The answer is simple. What happened is Sara is no longer in the real world – she's in that red box, the box of forbidden things and post-midnight thoughts.
"Michael."
She says his name pleadingly, although her attitude is probably more aggressive than his. His hunger for her is eager but gentle, but Sara's always been impatient in love, has sometimes jumped through the hoops of prelude and endured the wait as sheer torture. And she has no doubt Michael would prove a very apt teaser. Right now, though, there are more urgent things to think of than how much time he could try her patience before giving in to her commands.
Sara can be persuasive if she wants. Hopefully, she can persuade herself – persuade them both.
"We can't," she says, but it's the wrong thing, too blatantly untrue.
Their bodies are pressed flush together, the heat sending dazzling waves of anticipated pleasure ricocheting through her body, and it's never been clearer that they most certainly can.
Whether it'd be appropriate or not or right or wrong is a different matter altogether, but it's difficult to consider this when she can still taste him on her tongue.
"I'm sorry." She amazes herself with how unhesitant she sounds. "I can't. I'm your doctor. This is abuse."
He chuckles. The clear, unqualified charm of his laughter momentarily makes her at a loss for arguments.
"Do you think I feel abused, Doctor Tancredi?"
"I don't care."
Though she's careful to sound admonishing, it doesn't tame that head-spinning smile even a little, so shiny with confidence Sara has to double efforts to restrain herself from crushing it with her mouth.
But he's merciful.
Maybe more merciful than he wishes.
Sighing, and taking a step back – his hands sink out from under her shirt, and their lack is immediately felt with frustrated disappointment.
"I'm sorry," he says, too, but she's suddenly convinced neither of them means it. "I was out of line."
"The line was mine to draw."
Possibly.
Both of them are silent for a moment. Now that they've stopped kissing, Sara is dismayed at her openly lustful behavior, though not really ashamed. She may have restored the fences raised by their respective statuses, the intimacy they've shared – today, or in the ceilings during the riot – still exists, truer and more lasting than what stands between them. One day, she thinks, not hopeful but certain, it won't matter that he used to be a convict and I used to be his doctor.
Slowly, the outline of the next five years starts drawing itself before Sara's eyes, but she pushes the thoughts away – doesn't want to be pragmatic, to talk about waiting or counting the years. They have time for that. More than enough time.
"Well," Sara clears her throat, runs a hand through her hair. Of course, she's still aware of the way Michael looks at her, and if she weren't, the probably uncomfortable bump in his trousers would prevent her playing blind. "I'll give you a few minutes to get your head cleared before I call in a guard, okay?"
He nods.
She smiles – it should be awkward and apologetic, but honest to God, it's not. It's not.
"Goodnight, Michael."
"Goodnight. Sara."
When Sara looks back on this moment, it strikes her how things have gone so differently from what she would have thought.
That night, going home, she might have contemplated waiting five years – two and a half with good behavior – before starting a relationship with the man who would become her husband. Had she imagined becoming a fugitive, being hunted down by the government and risking her life countless of times – no.
But what difference did it make when, from that very moment, she was right about the things that really mattered?
That Michael Scofield didn't belong in prison. That their love was a cosmic, unstoppable force and regardless of the obstacles between them, they would overcome, and they would be together.
One day.
End Notes: I'm eager to know your thoughts. Please share.