1

Sara cast just one brief look at the man standing next to her as she stepped inside the elevator.

Tall –

(She liked them tall)

– black stubble growing back on his shaven scalp, a wine-red shirt, and an indistinct flash of an apparently handsome face. So handsome, actually, that Sara didn't want to look twice and have to realize the stranger wasn't actually that good-looking. Sure enough, she thought, there'd be old-acne scars on his face, or just a global disharmony her eyes hadn't caught in this brief, englobing glance.

Sara had more preoccupying thoughts to concern herself with, anyway –

She and the man were alone in the elevator, which in and of itself was rare enough.

It was five thirty p.m., a busy hour, and usually people flocked towards the elevator like bees diving in on a honeypot. It wasn't such a big building, and yet, Sara thought, the staircase was regarded with some sort of suspicion, and she doubted anyone would want to use it unless there were a fire or something.

Ha.

(This was amusing to Sara's shaken, sleep-deprived brain).

But staircases are so much more reliable than elevators. Staircases don't drop a dozen stories, while you're trapped in a box and waiting to crash –

Sara reached for the smooth, maroon surface of the elevator when she lost her balance. In response, she felt the man shift on his feet, hands leaving his pockets.

What does he think? She wondered, her lips ready to smile with such a golden occasion for sarcasm. That he'll get to gallantly catch me as I stumble, as if the very sight of him knocked me off my feet?

Sara straightened up, and leant her shoulder against the wall, near the line of buttons that went from Ground Floor to 9.

In her normal state, Sara could have walked these floors, used to be a promising runner in high school, could sprint across the football field without hardly breaking a sweat.

But this had been forsaken when she took up medical school, of course.

And morphine.

Morphine above all had killed Sara's athletic career.

In the corner of her eye, Sara could see the man, standing erect, a few feet from her – a blurred outline of the elegant face, which a full appraisal would probably reveal full of imperfections.

Naturally, they hadn't spoken a word to each other.

Maybe, as she joined him in the elevator, he had muttered a vague, polite greeting, no outright Hello, but those indistinguishable whispers we usually manage in a stranger's presence – good day, how are you, hi there. The words were a shy, barely audible whisper, unintelligible enough that you could take your pick as to what formula you'd just been served.

Sara's eyes darted towards the numbers on small screen, by the automatic doors.

Eight, seven, six.

Each floor was maybe fifteen seconds. When they'd reached number four, the man next to Sara cleared his throat.

Sara shot him a sharp and suspicious glance. She'd read about women being assaulted in elevators.

Even the quiet (and quieting) smile on the young man's lips didn't quite lower Sara's fences.

"Hi."

He said this not as if he'd been planning to approach her but just because their eyes had crossed and it would be rude not to. Still, he did sound awfully confident – and, Sara was half-displeased to acknowledge, he looked every bit as handsome as her mind had registered at first glance.

"Oddly quiet, isn't it? The elevator's usually crowded at this time of day." He remarked, managing a simultaneous smile and sigh, and both looked unreasonably attractive.

Sara was briefly reminded of the sort of men she used to date – or dream of – before morphine. Witty. Intelligent. Actually handsome.

How had she gotten so used to lazy leers, clumsy pawing and drunk kisses?

Drugs and booze, in Sara's experience, was more likely to make men slow – as if climbing on top of her amounted to scaling the Everest. How they beamed at her afterwards, in bliss and exhaustion, expecting her to share their amazement, or like she maybe ought to break into applause so they could fall peacefully asleep, their ego properly pampered.

It was strange that she hadn't noticed how much this annoyed her, until that single smile from the blue-eyed stranger in the elevator (what else was she supposed to call him?).

But Sara's brain was too fast, too passionate, even for morphine to tone her down. If drugs weren't taking the wild out of her, she didn't see what would – and she especially didn't see what she was doing, thinking about sex, while the young man was still staring into her eyes.

(Is this one wild, behind that polished smile of his?)

"Do you work here?" Michael inquired, maybe because she still hadn't answered his first question, though he managed not to sound desperate or defeated. "I don't think I've ever seen you in the building."

"My father owns it."

"Oh –"

"He's a piece of shit."

In truth, she only said that to see how funny he'd look, thrown off in his game – she expected maybe he'd just stare blankly at her, trying to convince himself he hadn't heard her right, because certainly a girl in such a fancy dress and high heels wasn't capable of such unwomanly speech.

And what the hell? She thought. She'd never talk to him again. After those automatic doors had returned her to the real world, Sara would walk out with her head held high, and the (admittedly handsome) stranger would be obliterated from her mind.

But the young man didn't actually make any funny face at all – just a flicker of surprise in his blue eyes, and the smile sitting on his face maybe turned wider, without crossing the precious limits of politeness.

Maybe because it wasn't something he heard every day, what with his neat clothes and sociable manners.

Maybe it was just that the swearing somehow didn't make her inelegant – like sophistication was just a second skin she'd never manage to tear off.

Talk about being born with a silver spoon in your mouth.

Disappointing, Sara thought, before straightening her hand on the strap of her purse, and looking back ahead of her – finally, they were reaching the ground floor, and she wouldn't cast one last look at the man. Better to leave him to ponder that.

He looked like the kind who liked to make sense of things (to solve puzzles).

But just as the elevator had passed the first storey, there was a vague quivering in the elevator cage, a sort of hiccups – the image seemed so fit Sara had trouble shaking it off. Like she and the stranger were trapped in the mouth of a hiccoughing elevator cage that might or might not spit them out.

After a few seconds during which Sara's stomach was curled into a tight ball, her heart squeezed by an anxious invisible hand, the elevator continued its laborious course, until it came to an abrupt stop. Just like that.

Sara stupidly reached for the Ground Floor button and pressed it, eagerly, almost hysterically (that's what her father would have called it, what he typically called her anger for him – Now, please, dear. Let's not be hysterical)

The elevator remained stuck however many times the button was pressed, and Sara retreated without looking ridiculous or defeated, taking a few steps back, sucking in her bottom lip and trapping it between her teeth.

In the corner of her eye, she could see the tall blue-eyed stranger looking at her.

So much for disappearing out those automatic doors and never talking to him again, she thought.

So much for getting the last word.

2

The two prisoners in the elevator cage tried everything in the book. Nothing extraordinarily imaginative or smart – just pure common sense. Pressing the emergency call button. Waiting as their problem was being taken to the right people. All of it felt to Sara like they were taking each other through the kiddy steps before a big slide – when they had exhausted all of the measures that were in order, all the things they could do, then it would just be the two of them and the void of silence, the air would thicken, Sara's pulse would race –

(As it does when you're attracted to someone)

And come on. How long had it been since Sara had found anyone really attractive, since sex had been even remotely connected to finding a pleasant partner, rather than just using it the same way she used morphine and booze – something to channel the exhausting (and terrifying) force in her mind.

I'm trying to wear myself out, Sara realized, and found the idea somewhat amusing.

"I'm Michael, by the way. Scofield."

Sara's eyes shot towards the stranger, as if he'd not just introduced himself but produced a loaded pistol and aimed its barrel at her head.

The young man – Michael – shrugged his shoulders, not exactly in coyness. "These things can take a while," he said. "Might be best if we have something to call each other."

"Yeah." Sara said, without it sounding like she agreed. An actual touch of suspicion – What do you know, how long these things can take? As if he'd actually planned all of this, getting stuck in an elevator with a mystery woman with whom he'd exchanged a total of, what, ten words?

The silliness of it must have spread from her mind to his because, without breaking eye-contact with her, he started chuckling.

Confident, but not so that it didn't leave place for warmth and sincerity. You could tell, in his laughter alone, that the man was a stranger to lying – Sara had known enough liars to be able to tell.

"I mean, I'm no technician, but –"

"Then what are you?"

The smile on his lips looked sweet, rich, you'd imagine they'd taste of dark chocolate. It crossed Sara's mind she'd never mused over what a man's lips might taste like before.

"I'm an engineer."

"Oh."

"Yes. Actually, this company hired me because they're thinking of building another seat."

"I've caught wind of it," Sara lied for some reason.

"They're quite a success," Michael commented. It wasn't clear whether or not he'd bought it. "My brother says, pretty soon, there'll be 'Tancredi and Associates' building in every big city."

"Sounds like your brother isn't too pleased about it."

Michael shrugged. "He's old fashioned. Thinks big corporations are essentially evil."

"A shame he isn't stuck with me in this elevator."

"So, when you say your father owns this building…"

Their eyes were held by an invisible line, straight, unwavering. Sara was aware, in some deeply buried secret place she hadn't needed for years, that they were flirting. What's more, they were going about it like children in kindergarten. Throwing jabs at each other, no time for pause or weakness. In a more or less obvious way, pulling on each other's pigtails.

Sara could almost find it amusing, if not for the extremely adult feel of the air between them.

"You don't mean Frank Tancredi, do you?" Michael finished with his question.

There was no escape door for Sara to seize, no way to deny a piece of information she'd willingly given away.

But as she reckoned the young man had asked without a remote doubt concerning the answer, she didn't bother to give one. "You've had the pleasure to meet him in person?"

"I wouldn't call it pleasure." Cocking his head to the side, and Sara glimpsed a beauty spot on his temple, couldn't help but think – this must be the sort of details this man needs to remind others his absurd good looks aren't dehumanizing. "It's business."

"Business," she repeated, inexplicably amused.

Michael did have that knowing air about him, like he was the sort of man who'd sell his soul to the devil – if the devil had something well worth trading.

"That reminds me," he remarked, "you haven't told me what you're doing here."

In other words, why would she be visiting her father if he was such 'a piece of shit'?

When you thought about it, Sara's relationship with Frank Tancredi was pretty much business itself. They met on an irregular basis, sometimes as much as twice a year, though never for the holidays – Sara couldn't conjure up an image more ridiculous than she and her father, sitting at a table loaded with turkey and yams and sophisticated-looking desserts, awkwardly trying to get through more than a few words.

Things as they were suited Sara just fine.

Usually, it would go more or less like this –

She got in trouble, and he threatened her with rehab. Or prison. Or both.

More often than not, he'd be using his big CEO voice for this, and Sara could imagine how his employees cowered in front of his majestic authority, must be, considering how Frank Tancredi looked an absolute stranger to anything short of meek obedience.

Sara would actually almost enjoy this – those brief reunions with her father.

How much was it this time, Sara? For Christ's sake, she would smile like a hell-spawned cat when he said that, as if Frank expected for her to blush repentantly at the sound of Jesus's name, you have more shit coursing through your veins right now than a bloody sewage system.

All the while, Sara would smile contentedly, if anything, with secret mockery –

Oh yes, father, go ahead, wash my sins away with your purifying speech. Can you feel the shame, ladies and gentlemen? Oh, bless you, father. Obliterate me! Oh, the sweet taste of penitence, atone me, whip me bloody with those saintly hands, oh –

Sara's lips broke into a red, chiming laughter.

Yes, she did enjoy playing a joke on her father, every once in a while, which she took it wasn't totally undeserved. After all, he only kept her out of prison because he couldn't afford a scandal.

And it was awfully easy to keep being a rock in his shoe when that's all he'd ever seemed to think she could do.

A shine of curiosity swept over Michael's eyes. Her laughter, maybe – or the wickedness in her smile.

Does he buy it? Does he think I look like a witch (does he feel spellbound)?

"Trust me, Michael," she said, to put him out of his misery. It was starting to get hot, in that elevator cage, and Sara found it wiser not to try and see where the smoke might lead them. "You don't want to hear about this."

"About –"

"Me." She cut off – but couldn't quite will the smile off her lips, however hooked on it he looked. "If you're working with my father, it's best you forget I exist."

"You don't get along, I take it."

For a smart man, he did ask extraordinarily easy questions. But what would be the point in saying so, in teasing him some more?

I've gone too far down that road to go back, now. Clever handsome men belonged in an alternate life in which Sara wouldn't have chosen morphine – sweet, welcome oblivion – a life where there'd be room for conversations, seduction, possibly passion.

"Like I said," Sara answered, somewhat cautious, despite the vixen gleam in her eyes. "You don't want to follow my example."

A voice, having an odd metallic sound to it, sounded in the elevator cage, muffled but communicating a simple enough message that it could get through.

'They' were very sorry for this incident. The problem of the stuck elevator had been brought to 'their' superior and 'they' would take care of it as quick as possible. It shouldn't be longer than –

"A few minutes," Sara repeated to herself, amused. Right. Liars know a lie when they come across one.

All the while, she was deliberately avoiding to look at Michael, thinking he ought to stop looking at her like that, like she was some sort of mystery (he looks like a man who likes solving puzzle), a question mark that makes sense neither by the answers it suggests nor even by the questions it raises.

"So," Michael resumed, calm, still confident (she ate confident men like him for breakfast). "I believe you were telling me about yourself."

"You believe that? Well. We won't be stuck in here much longer." It was lame to go for the it's a long story formula, but Sara found that under those unsettling blue eyes, she was out of ideas.

Michael shrugged, unshaken in his poise. "You could give me your phone number, and we could finish this over a drink sometime."

Sara's laughter came out more witch than she meant it. "Really, Michael," she assured. "You don't want to go down that road."

Better for them to leave it there – for him to think she was a fascinating riddle rather than one messed up woman.

"This is going to sound funny to you," he said, serious, "but I really think I do."

The smile on Sara's lips didn't go anywhere, but she had to struggle to keep it there. This didn't sound funny to her at all.

There was something about Michael the blue-eyed stranger, and it wasn't just that pretty face her eyes couldn't seem to get used to –

The charm, the odd warmth and quiet he radiated. And the way he meant to seduce her, no games, no wheedling – just a sure and steady hand.

Sara's hand used to be steady, holding a scalpel, saving lives, mattering. Before morphine.

You should have met me in another life, Michael Scofield.

At last, the elevator cage loosened with an abrupt quaking and resumed its downward course.

Sara's eyes kept wisely ahead of her, although she could feel his (that abyss-blue gaze) burning a red mark on the side of her face.

"No phone number, then?"

No desperate hope or neediness. Really, she had a sudden image of Michael as just a gallant stranger, holding the door open for her –

Some doors aren't safe to enter.

And when you've already gone so far down a path of self-destruction, it's people who try to save you that look dangerous. People who hold out their hands (sure and steady), to try and get you out of those tumultuous waters you're in –

(Oh, but those waters get so familiar after a while, numb and comfortable)

"I better not." Sara answered, with an attempt at firmness – she was dismayed to hear the tremor in her voice. Her eyes, tempted to meet his –

"Fair enough." He yielded – no defeat. Not exactly surrender. "Then, may I at least get a name?"

A somewhat ridiculous ding, as the automatic doors parted on a sudden glimpse of daylit hall, and Sara willed herself to walk away, just like this, no more words.

Her heel-clad feet turned lead-heavy, rooted into the ground.

"Shouldn't be hard for you to find it," she said. The sound of her own voice somewhat distant. "Frank Tancredi's a famous enough man – like all very successful corporate heads. And I'm the only daughter he has, as far as I know."

The sound of Michael's laughter drew Sara's eyes on his face before she could help it. "You don't like easy, do you?"

"It depends with whom."

Then her eyes were ahead of her again, but not fast enough that she could miss the shine of curiosity in his gaze, or before the sight of his white grin could wring silly flutters from her stomach.

Like a little girl, Sara.

Loves-me-loves-me-not-loves-me-loves-me-not.

"Goodbye, then."

"I'll see you," was his answer.

And finally Sara could break whatever spell was keeping her feet frozen and she was walking away, fast – almost like her life depended on it.

Now, she could say it. "I'll never see that man again." A hushed whisper, meant only for herself.

But that was without taking into account that fate might have other plans for them.

…

End Notes: I intended to write this as a one-shot but I've had a lot of fun with it, and now I'm thinking a series of chance encounters between these two might be interesting enough. Give me your thoughts! Hope you've enjoyed this.