Ink

Author: Melissa

Characters: Sara Tancredi, Michael Scofield

Rating: PG-13.

Summary: He realizes he's not the only one who bears the marks of ink.

Spoilers: None.

Notes: This was written back in August 2008 and I kind of forgot to post it here.

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She's patching up the open wound above his eyebrow when he catches sight of it. The pale green tank top has risen a bit as she tends to his wound, her attention drifting back and forth from him to the aid kit sitting on the edge of the bed, just beside the spot he's sitting on.

He doesn't really know why he's been looking at that particular spot – maybe it has to do with the expense of skin suddenly showing between the hem of her top and the waistline of her sweatpants – then he realizes he's not the only one who bears the marks of ink.

"You have a tattoo," he says slowly, deliberately and a little bit startled that he never noticed it until now.

Her eyes formerly focused on his wound now are meeting his as she stills her ministrations, her gloved hands frozen an inch from his skin.

When the latex gloves are snapped off, she self-consciously straightens her top and the tattoo is hidden from view once again.

He sees her reaction and bites the inside of his mouth. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be." She meets his eyes briefly. "It's just— the last person who saw that tattoo was one of my junkie boyfriends," she says flatly. "And maybe a nurse or two at the hospital." The aid kit is snapped shut a little more forcefully than necessary and she pushes it aside. He doesn't need to ask her about the circumstances of what brought her to the hospital that night. He'll never stop feeling guilty and sorry for that.

"Don't you like it?" he presses, even if he knows that he shouldn't.

"I actually like it," she replies. "Not too many people get to see it nowadays. Sometimes I forget it's even there."

He gets what she doesn't say. Unlike him, the choice of having a tattoo was hers and hers alone - for private eyes and certainly not for those at Fox River. The intricate canvas on his upper body wasn't for eccentricity or to be and look different – it was something that was both a blessing and a curse and served only one purpose:

to get his brother out of prison.

What was an aesthetic drawing sketched on milky skin for her, his was a weight on his shoulders, a sketch of his plan to save his brother from being killed for a crime he didn't commit. Different perspectives for different reasons.

His fingers close around her wrist and he brings her closer to him. She stands between his legs and she watches him silently as he lifts her top just enough. He splays his hand wide on her left hip and his thumb brushes the small patch of inked skin and there's a shiver running down her spine that makes her want to throw caution to the wind and just distract him with something other than her tattoo.

His eyes peruse the contours of it (what is visible because the other half disappears under her sweatpants) and he brings his face closer to her stomach the same moment he brings her closer to him still. She grips his shoulders for balance and idly wonders if the bedroom door is locked – she can hear the muffled voices of Lincoln and his son as well as the sound of the TV on the other side.

His fingers slowly push her sweatpants down, just enough to reveal the rest of her tattoo and it's still not enough for her.

Michael Scofield, she thinks as his breath and fingers caress her skin, is a very dangerous man.

But as he kisses her, right there where the inked drawing is, she finds she doesn't really care.

The End