She'd culled the habit of staying awake long after he'd fallen asleep. The rhythm of his breathing was as familiar as her own heartbeat. When he exhaled the deep sigh into REM, she'd reach out and trace the plans that he'd committed to skin. The ink wore itself in unevenly so that certain passages or words were raised while others lay flat to the surface. It was constantly changing: living, breathing art. Tattoos Sara had never understood until given the opportunity to examine Michael's in detail. She wished she could see in it what he did: the story of his escape. Michael said he wished he only saw the demons.
Touching him like this while he slept always felt forbidden. It seemed too intimate, like she was deconstructing his pathos or answering questions that she didn't have the nerve to ask. Not that he would deny her entreaty for information; he'd lay his soul bare. She withdrew her fingertips from his skin for a moment, feeling a bit too heady with the sway she held over him. It would be easy to take advantage of, to own him completely, but Sara preferred to let him keep his secrets.
When it came to Michael she couldn't help but feel more owing than owed. He'd healed her in ways that meetings, counseling, and working at Fox River never could. It didn't matter that she couldn't articulate it; she knew that when Michael's pupils danced over her face, he was seeing her in the same way he saw two-by-fours behind stucco. Sara didn't have his gift, but she knew him just as well: the part of Michael that hated himself wished that she hated him, too. He waited on her anger but couldn't accept her grace, so Sara just tried harder to convince him that he deserved it.
