"Morning." He smiles down at her, his eyes bright and clear, his entire demeanor one of perfect physical and mental health. Once again, she finds herself puzzling over the difference between the man she found cowering in the cell in Ad-Seg two days ago and the one standing beside her now.

Her door is locked. Frowning, she searches for her keys and a conversational opening at the same time, fumbling over both of them with a clumsiness that should worry her a lot more than it does. "You, uh, how you feeling today?"

His smile doesn't waver. "Better."

She finally has the key in the door, and the handle is turning in her grasp. "Good." She waves him into the room, all too aware of the fact his smile is doing odd things to the pit of her stomach.

The door of the infirmary shuts behind them, and he begins to walk towards his usual chair beside her desk. "Actually, I need you on the examination table today."

Stopping in his tracks, he turns to her with a frown, his smiling mood vanishing before her eyes. "Why?"

She looks at him. There's never been a single moment of their time when she hasn't been acutely aware of him - on more levels than she cares to admit – but there's an air of impatience about him today that gives her pause. "Uh, I need to check the dressing on your burn?"
His eyes lock with hers, and she has the fleeting and unexpected impression of a man weighing up his options. After a few seconds, he nods and makes his way slowly to the examination table, his feet literally dragging on the floor. Bewildered by this uncharacteristic show of reluctance, she does her best to hazard a guess at its cause. "I can give you a local anesthetic before I clean the wound, if you like?"

His face is oddly blank, his usually expressive eyes giving her nothing. "The pain isn't an issue."

The words are softly spoken, but she feels as though he's slapped her. "Right."

He immediately looks contrite, his lips parting as though he might speak, but she doesn't give him the chance. "I don't suppose you're ready to tell me who did this to you?" she asks briskly as she snaps on her gloves and starts to carefully peel the dressing away from his seeping wound.

"I don't suppose I am."

Standing behind him, she flinches at the undeniably abrupt note in his voice, and is grateful he can't see her face. It's not as though she expects him to be a ray of sunshine during every single visit, but she's grown far too used to their time together being the best part of her working day. It's been a long time since she's had to deal with the irritation she can feel radiating from him, and the realization plants a brightly flashing warning sign squarely in the middle of her mind. If he were any other patient, she asks herself bluntly, would his despondent mood feel like a personal affront?

She doesn't have to think too long to come up with an answer.

Damn it.

"Are you keeping the bandage as dry as possible?"

"Yes."

They don't look at each other as they talk, and she can't help wondering if he feels it too, this sudden gulf that seems to have opened up between them. She immediately berates herself, knowing his thoughts are more likely occupied with his brother's upcoming execution than the quality of conversation with his prison doctor.

Silence fills up the space between them as she works. It's not exactly awkward, but she has the feeling he's distracted, his mind a million miles away from this room. At least the lack of flirtatious banter leaves her completely free to concentrate on the task at hand, she tells herself, pleased to see his burn shows no sign of ulceration or infection. For an insulin-dependant diabetic, she muses, he heals remarkably well.

He sits with his head bowed, lifting it only to cast the occasional glance towards the corridor outside the infirmary. It suddenly occurs to her perhaps he's self-conscious about being stripped to the waist in plain view of the passing COs and inmates, given his tattoos are not something she's ever known him to deliberately expose. Moving around the table, she adjusts the privacy screen, blocking them from any curious onlookers who may be passing by.

It's a decision she soon regrets. The screen only heightens the false impression of intimacy, and she makes a mental note not to make that mistake again. He's watching her now, the weight of his gaze pressing down on her skin as surely as if he's touching her, and she has the uneasy suspicion his mood has changed from irritation to something quite different.

Biting back a sigh, she tosses the soiled swab into the trash, her gloves soon following. All she needs to do now is apply a clean dressing to the burn, then administer his insulin. He'll be out of here in less than five minutes, and she will be left feeling unsettled and restless for the rest of the day. In other words, business as usual when it comes to Michael Scofield.

Distracted by all the questions she knows she will never ask him, she turns around, faintly startled to find herself standing so close to the table. She's close enough to see the determination glittering in his eyes, near enough to hear the deep breath he takes before he leans forward and kisses her, his mouth soft and gentle on hers.

An inmate is kissing her, she thinks somewhere in the cool, collected part of her brain. An inmate is kissing her, and she needs to push him away and call for a CO, have him removed from the infirmary immediately.

She does none of these things, because this is Michael, and she can no longer deny some part of her has been waiting for this. She kisses him back, opening her mouth to the gentle sweep of his tongue, her hands lifting to touch his face. His skin is smooth and warm beneath her palms, the scent of him teasing her senses, the blood rising to the surface of her skin as her whole body tightens in anticipation.

There's no coming back from this.

She pulls away, feeling as though they've been kissing for hours rather than seconds, her face aflame. Her hands are still touching his face, almost curled around his neck. She can still smell his skin, soap and the tang of fresh sweat, and the urge to press her mouth to the tanned column of his neck bubbles through her veins like a narcotic.

They stare at each other, and through the fog of her scattered thoughts, she realises he looks as shell-shocked as she feels. An absurd little laugh rises up in her throat, rippling through the narrow space between them, and he smiles, relief shining in his eyes. The moment passes, the laughter quickly dying on her tongue, and she searches his face, looking for a sign that what just happened meant more than a fleeting moment of pleasure for a disenchanted inmate.

She takes a deep breath, forcing the words out through lips still tingling from his kiss. "What do you want from me, Michael?"

He swallows hard, as though he's having trouble speaking. "Sara." The strangled sound of her name on his lips makes her stomach flip over, and she's filled with the urge to back away. She lets her hands fall from his face, only to lift them again when he bows his head, unable to meet her eyes. When she slides her fingertips beneath his chin, gently lifting his face to hers, he seems to come to some kind of decision. "I need you to do something for me."

She stares at him, afraid she can already feel herself nodding. "What?"

He bows his head again, and once more she's touching his face and neck, her hands moving of their own volition. She can almost feel the tension radiating from him, and just when she thinks he's going to withdraw from the conversation, he lifts his gaze to hers. "Wait for me?"

She stares at him, shock stealing her voice, her heart pounding.

"It won't always be like this." He's finally touching her, his hands tangling in her hair, sweeping it back from the crook of her neck, the warmth of his palm skimming her shoulder. "In this room." His forehead presses against hers, the unsteady rasp of his warm breath washing over her lips. "In this place."

Despite the prickle of frustrated tears pressing hotly behind her eyes, she feels vindicated. This means more than a fleeting moment of pleasure to him. If she believes him - and God help her, she does - she means more. But she can't do this, can't be with him like this, not now, not while he's on the wrong side of that prison fence. Wrapping her fingers around his, she turns her head and presses a lingering kiss to his PI-roughened fingers, tasting salt and dust. "Until then, I can't."

His eyes widen, his fingers tightening around hers. Please understand, she implores him silently. Please understand that I can't promise you anything, not here, not now. "I can't," she says again, her voice sounding faded and unsure in the stillness of the room. She wants to say something else – anything that might help him hear all the things she can't tell him - but the sight of the new locum striding into the waiting room next door shatters the illusion of privacy. "Damn it," she mutters, steeling herself to meet Michael's eyes for the last time. "I can't," she tells him, her voice thick with the threat of tears, and she knows she has to get out of this room. "And I gotta go."

She knows she's abandoning him, but she doesn't look back as she leaves the room, doesn't stop walking until she finds the person she needs. "Katie?"

"What's up?" Her nurse's brow furrows as she studies her. "Hey, are you okay?"

For the second time that afternoon, Sara feels the absurd urge to laugh. "No, actually." She presses her palm to her forehead, unsurprised to find it's warm and clammy. "I'm not feeling too good. Would you mind finishing off my three o'clock?"

"Not a problem." Katie glances towards the examination room from which Sara has just fled. "Scofield, right? What's he need?"

"New dressing on his burn, plus his usual insulin shot," she hears herself say, vaguely pleased she sounds reassuringly normal. "It's all on his chart."

"Done." Katie clicks her tongue as she looks her over. "Go get some fresh air, girl."

A few minutes later, Sara is pushing open the staff entrance door, hoping the cool afternoon air might clear her head. She sits on the empty bench usually occupied by the resident smokers, staring at the crushed cigarette butts on the concrete, unhappily aware no amount of cool air is going to help. Not today, when the thought of the time stretching out between between now and the end of Michael's sentence both thrills and terrifies her.

Until then, I can't, she'd told him, not daring to let herself say all the things that were burning a hole in her tongue. Dropping her head into her hands, she wonders if she'll ever have the chance to tell him those words were her way of saying yes.

Having spent most of her adult life waking up alone, she should be used to it. This morning, though, knowing he'd put her to bed and left her alone with her exhaustion and her aching body, she can't help but feel faintly disappointed. Granted, she'd slept like the dead - she takes a moment to reflect on the irony of that particular notion – which is something she may not have done if he'd shared the narrow bed with her. Still, this is not exactly how she'd pictured the first morning of the first day of the rest of their lives.

Slowly swinging her legs off the bed, she pushes herself to her feet, mentally taking stock of every twinge and ache as she straightens. The stitched gash in her bicep is still tender, but that's only to be expected, given how deep Gretchen's little toy had sliced into her flesh and muscle. Her ribs hurt like hell if she twists the wrong way, but they're only bruised, not broken. She knows without looking that her right kneecap is still yellow and purple and the ragged fingernails on both hands make her look as though she suffers from the world's worst case of compulsive nail-biting.

All things considered, she thinks wryly, she's not doing too badly.

She washes up in the small bathroom with as much haste and dexterity as she can manage, smiling at the toothbrush and toothpaste someone has left out for her. After pulling on yesterday's jeans and t-shirt - she studies her bra in indecision for a moment, then decides it's probably wiser to make the effort than to go without it - she makes her way up the hallway of the small house to which Michael and Lincoln had brought her the previous evening.

Michael is in the kitchen, gazing into a cupboard with a perplexed expression. Lincoln is nowhere to be seen, and she can't deny she's glad of the unexpected moment of privacy. "Morning."

His eyes light up at the sight of her. "Morning." He quickly crosses the room to her side, only to pull up abruptly when he reaches her, as though uncertain of his next move. Last night, before he'd put her to bed, he hadn't been able to stop touching her - her hand, her shoulder, her face - as if he couldn't believe she was real. This morning, though, there seems to be a new constraint between them. "How are you feeling?"

She manages a smile. They have a history of exchanging loaded questions, and it's strangely reassuring to know nothing has changed. "Better."

His grin doesn't quite mask his concern or the dark shadows beneath his eyes. If he slept at all last night, it's impossible to tell. "Good." He hesitates, then gestures towards the kitchen behind him, an almost shy expression flickering across his face. "Lincoln should be back soon with some food, but I think there's enough coffee to scrape together a cup for you. If you want one, that is."

She looks at him, wishing he didn't feel compelled to treat her as though she's literally at death's door. "Maybe later," she tells him softly, her gaze drifting over him lazily, cataloging him from head to toe. She notes the faint scar running through his left eyebrow and the apparently unconscious movement of his right shoulder, as though the brush of his t-shirt against his skin isn't quite comfortable. Her perception switches instantly from woman to doctor as a particular memory wells up inside her mind, her feet moving towards the kitchen sink before she has the chance to second-guess her decision.

He leans one hip against the kitchen counter as she scrubs her hands at the sink, his proximity infusing her body with a frailty that has nothing to do with her healing injuries. "What are you doing?"

"I'm going to look at that burn on your shoulder." It's displacement of the worst kind, she knows that. He wants to talk about her, but that's not something she's ready to do. Not yet. They need to rewind and start again, she decides, to go back to where it started falling apart and see if they can get it right this time. And maybe once that's done, she'll be ready to tell him everything. She swallows hard at the thought. At least, she hopes so.

"Sara-"

"Michael." She points to the couch a few feet away in the adjoining room, ignoring the twinge of discomfort caused by raising her arm a little too high, too fast. She fixes him with the sternest glare she can muster, but suspects her smile is somewhat ruining the effect. "Take your shirt off, sit down and shut up."

He blinks, then the beginnings of a smirk tugs at the corner of his wide mouth. "Yes, ma'am."

He does as she asks without further comment, watching her from beneath hooded eyes as though waiting to spring to her side at the first sign of fatigue. Being a sensible woman, she allows him to bring one of the heavy wooden chairs from the kitchen so she can sit beside the couch, not bothering to hide the fact she's studying the play of muscles across his bare back and chest. A slow burn of awareness flickers to life low in her belly, tendrils of heat spreading out beneath her skin, making her feel more alive than she has in a long time. There are far too many things still unsaid between them, but they're alive and they're together. For today, at least, that's enough.

As soon as they're both seated, she swiftly reaches for the first aid kit, pleased by the sight of her rock-steady hands. Perhaps it's because this feels like an opportunity to finish a long overdue conversation, maybe because it's been weeks since she felt in control of anything, but no matter what the reason, they're going to do this her way.

A not-entirely pleasant sense of déjà vu washes over her as she peels back the tatty bandage from his wound and reaches for a sterile swab. "So, are you going to tell me who did this to you?"

He shifts restlessly on the couch, his muscles twisting beneath the indigo patterns on his skin. "It was an accident."

She studies the healing edges of the burn through narrowed eyes, searching for any signs of ulceration or infection. "I'm pleased to hear it, but that doesn't really answer my question." He darts her a hesitant glance, and she offers him a small smile. "Come on. I think you owe me this one."

Sorrow glitters in his eyes, and for a moment she thinks he's simply going to change the subject to all that has befallen her while they were apart. Much to her relief, however, he takes a deep breath and answers her. "I did it."

Her hands grow still. "I'm sorry, what?"

"I did it myself."

She feels the blood drain from her face. "How?"

He twists on the couch until he's facing her, his knees on either side of hers, effectively trapping her in place. "I was in the pipe system, trying to map out the route between the infirmary and the Psych Ward. I ran into a CO doing his rounds and had to back into the shadows real fast." He looks at her, his expression faintly apologetic. "Guess I picked the wrong corner to back into."

She thinks of the scrape of dark material that had literally been melted into his skin, black against the bright red of his wound. "And you kept quiet while the pipe burned this gaping hole into your flesh?"

"Yes."

She says nothing, a subtle wave of nausea rolling through her stomach as she catalogues the unhappy ramifications of his admission. Her fears for his safety, witnessing his horrific experience in Ad-Seg, leaving him in the Psych Ward without knowing if she would ever see him alive again. All of it for nothing.

As if keeping pace with her thoughts, he leans forward and puts his hands on her knees, fingers curled around her kneecaps, the warmth of his palms seeping through her jeans. "Sara, when you decide you're ready to hear it, I want to tell you everything. Will you let me?"

She doesn't hesitate. Not when it comes to him, not any more. "Yes."

"Thank you." Catching her hand where it rests on his shoulder, he turns his head and presses a kiss to her wrist, just above the cuff of her sterile glove, his lips soft and smooth against her skipping pulse. Her heart leaps into her throat as he closes his eyes, and she can't help wondering if he's trying to memorize the sensation of her skin beneath his mouth. It's an impulse she understands all too well.

He'd kissed her last night, his arms wrapped around her so tightly she could scarcely breathe, but this morning, everything is different. This morning, they are finally alone behind closed doors, the scant space between them heavy with anticipation, awareness literally humming through the air. The scent of antiseptic is thick in her nose, the room around them utterly silent, and she's suddenly thrust back into another life, another room.

She remembers the first touch of his mouth on hers.

She remembers the way he'd looked at her, as though he'd found something he hadn't realized he was missing.

She remembers desperately wanting to bury her face in the crook of his shoulder, to kiss his throat and taste the salty skin beneath the stubborn curve of his jaw.

She remembers telling him without words that she'd wait.

His hand is gentle on her arm now, drawing her closer, his eyes glowing with both desire and the same joy that's humming beneath her skin. She wants very much to kiss him - wants it so much she can already taste him on the back of her tongue - but swayed by the impulse to indulge a long suppressed craving, she bows her head instead, touching her lips to the tanned column of his throat.

Her imagination has served her well these last few months. He tastes of salt and smells of soap and clean sweat and she doesn't even consider resisting the urge to sweep her tongue lightly across his skin, her teeth scraping gently over the suddenly tightly corded muscle in his neck.

He makes a choked sound in the back of his throat, then she feels his hands sliding up the length of her thighs and around to the small of her back with unmistakable intent. He's never touched her before, not like this, but being touched is suddenly nowhere near enough. She wants more, just as she's always wanted more, as he's always wanted more, and this time there's nothing to stop them from taking exactly what they want from each other.

She's peeling off her gloves and sliding off the chair before she realizes it, her thighs brushing against his as she climbs into his lap. He looks startled for precisely two seconds, then his hands come up to touch her face, pulling her mouth down to his. His breath is hot against her lips, her breasts almost painfully sensitive as they brush against his chest. As he kisses her, his hands dip beneath the hem of her shirt, sliding slowly up her back, languidly exploring the length of her spine. When one long finger lightly traces the clasp of her bra, she shivers, her whole body feeling flushed and strangely cool at the same time. Gooseflesh blossoms in the wake of his touch, her breasts tightening in anticipation, her pulse ratcheting up several notches in the space of a heartbeat. He kisses her fiercely, with a hunger that threatens to melt the flesh from her bones, his tongue curling around hers at the exact second she feels his body stirring to life beneath hers.

Oh, God.

She shifts her weight instinctively, her knees slipping on the worn material of the couch, and the urgent thrust of his body is suddenly pressing hard between her legs, there, right there, making her want to arch and rub and push him backwards onto the couch and climb inside his skin. "Michael," she breathes his name unsteadily against his mouth, and one of his big hands spreads wide at the base of her spine, urging her closer, the other hand sliding delicately upwards over her ribs, ghosting over her bruised flesh until she feels the feather-light brush of his fingertips over the curve of her breast. The simple caress seems to brand her skin through her thin cotton bra, and she arches into his touch, wordlessly giving her permission, her blessing, whatever the hell he's waiting for, oh, Jesus, Michael, please, please just do it.

He chuckles deep in his chest as his hand closes over her breast, his thumb brushing against the rising jut of her nipple, and she belatedly realizes she's muttered the words out loud. She flushes, then the feel of his palm gently teasing her breast sends any embarrassment fleeing from her thoughts and a rush of heat darting straight to her groin.

This is what they've been dancing around since the moment they met, she thinks dazedly. This moment, this feeling of his body against hers, this certainty of lust and tenderness and a longing that goes way beyond any demands of the flesh.

Perhaps the sound of a car door slamming, followed by the unmistakable crunch of Lincoln's boots on the path leading to the front door, should have the effect of being doused with a bucket of cold water. It doesn't. It seems to take them an eternity to untangle themselves and pull rumpled clothing back into place, their hands and mouths still brushing against skin and lips in a vain attempt to ward off the inevitable disruption to their newly discovered privacy.

Finally, he smoothes back her hair from her face before offering her his hand, helping her climb off his lap. "Just when I start thinking how good it is Katie isn't here to interrupt us," he says with a rueful smile as she stands on wobbly legs, and the breathless desire in his voice immediately makes her want to lock the front door and send Lincoln out for another batch of medical supplies.

Instead she just laughs, the lilting sound of delight bubbling up in her throat, making her feel weightless and free. "It's probably a blessing in disguise," she tells him, the lighthearted words belied by the hammering of her heart and the persistent ache of several tingling spots on her body, none of which are connected to injuries. "I'm hardly in a fit state for any, uh, serious physical exertion."

God, she sounds like an idiot, but despite the thwarted desire etched on his face, she knows he understands, perhaps better than she does. At last, after everything they've done to get to this point, they finally have the luxury of the one thing they've never had.

Time.

"There's no rush," he agrees softly as Lincoln makes a show of knocking very loudly on the front door. "Just as well, I guess." Giving her a wry smile, he answers his brother's unspoken request without taking his eyes from hers. "Come in, Linc." His thumb strokes across her palm, then explores the pale skin of her wrist. "Besides, I was hoping you might actually finish the job properly today," he adds playfully, gesturing towards his shoulder with his free hand. "I seem to recall you running out on me last time, Doctor Tancredi."

Her face grows warm, she reaches for the first aid kit as the front door opens. "You're a very demanding patient, Mr Scofield," she murmurs, her fingers clumsy as she flicks through packets of gauze, butterflies arcing joyfully through her belly.

His hand tightens around hers, his slow smile one of promise. "You have no idea."