Crosses To Bear

by MissMazzie

After she watches Michael and his date leave the bar, Sara leaves with her sponsor, and her world is turned upside down. (This is a new story written in 2014 and follows immediately after 12 Steps and a House of Cards. Keep in mind 12 Steps was written back in 2006 after the first episode of season 2, so these stories may not be canon compliant. Told from Sara's POV.)

Crosses to Bear

You have tamed me

Now you must take me

How am I supposed to be

I don't have my thorns now

But I feel them sprouting

They'll grow right through if I don't watch it

They'll grow right through even if I watch it

And the sunset couldn't save me now

These baobabs and baobabs

And baobabs some more

But you can't outwait fate

Baobabs… by Regina Spektor

Grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.

Serenity Prayer

Crosses to Bear

You've always hated the 12 Steps. This second time through, you've hated them even more. But you're here tonight with your credit card sized laminated 12 Step reminder card between your fingers and you're a little dazed and quite confused. You read the words and they reverberate in the silence. The result of these steps is a spiritual awakening. You may have had a moment before of clarity in the intensity of that room with him, Michael Scofield, standing over you at the edge of your table. But right now you're not sure what to think and the frustration brings tears stinging to your eyes.

Your sponsor makes the familiar move—grabbing your elbow, leading you down the street to the corner lot where you've both parked. "At your place," he trails off flatly. It's a statement, not a question, and it's not remotely seductive or particularly polite. He doesn't even need a full sentence because at this point you both know the routine. It's a habit you started with him, not-so-innocently and with years of practice behind it—trading yourself and drugs for acceptance or status or what you'd hoped would be love. It was even your original suggestion to drive separately. That way, he never has to stay after he comes, and you can at least have his signature on your probation documents. Then you can be left alone in your bitterness and with Michael Scofield on your mind.

At your place. He said it like he always does. But tonight you never actually agree to it. He's slightly ahead of you now, though slowing his pace. He turns and makes an impatient gesture, bending slightly at the waist with a sweep of his arm to indicate the way. It's exaggeratedly genteel, mockingly so, like he was escorting a real lady ahead. When you fail to move, he thinks he needs to drive his point home. "Right behind you." His choice of words strikes you. He's reminding you of your position in this thing, and it refers to much more than following you home in his car, riding your tail the whole way. "Ok?" he coaxes. Apparently, he's beginning to think he's not getting lucky tonight.

But tonight is somehow different now. Over the back of the couch or otherwise, you can't bear the thought of him touching you. Your stomach churns at the thought, and it hits you like a wave of hot acid rushing up from your stomach to your mouth, just like that first dose of prescription Antabuse so many years ago when you mixed it with the tiniest amount of Daddy's bourbon as soon as you were out of the hospital, alone, and could get your hands on it.

The result of these steps is a spiritual awakening.

"Not tonight," you say. It falls from your lips with startling ease even before you have the wherewithal to plan an escape. He looks askance at you and you are, once again, thrust back to those early days when he stood between what you knew would be yet another personal failure—probation—and a prison cell door, and you're forced to pacify him for his signature, even though in these past six months and thirteen days you've never taken even a single drink. "I'm just not feeling myself tonight." But you doubt he's convinced. You force a casual laugh to throw him off. "Been one of those days, you know?"

No, he doesn't know.

"Well," he says, his dissatisfaction evident. He's got your papers and his signature to hold as ransom and you know he'll leverage it some point down the line. "Next week, then," he says, "at the meeting…" His voice trails off. You watch as he leans over, clicks the pen, and scribbles his name on your papers across his half-bent knee. It's just pen to paper, yet it feels nonetheless like a brand. He catches your eye and sizes you up. He extends the paper between you, not quite halfway, so you have to reach in and grab at them. He snatches them back and warns, "Don't do anything I wouldn't do," totally aware that it leaves you with a lot of room for error because there isn't much of anything he wouldn't do, never mind that making mistakes is your singular natural talent. Even Michael Scofield, who had a lesser intimate knowledge of you, knew that. I'm asking you to make a mistake, not hurt anyone, not steal anything. Just forget to lock up. Oh, is that it? Please... Well then, allow me.

You don't even try to meet his eye, afraid that he might recognize the equivocation in yours. It's ironic, you think, that after all these years of hedging the truth, batting your adolescent eyes at juvenile boyfriends and middle-aged principals, appeasing authority with flattery and empty promises while bargaining for fewer and fewer community hours served, that rehab has stolen this neat little trick from you—your ability to convince even yourself, let alone anybody else, with half-truths. Yet tonight, you know something he doesn't yet know. You know deep down it's for the best. It's for your own good. This will be the last time you see him, and you hope your next court-appointed sponsor is female.

He gets in his car, drives off, all without looking over his shoulder or buckling his seatbelt—he makes his own rules. You do nothing to acknowledge him as he passes by and you fall out of his purview, lost in his rearview. There's a twinge in your chest when you realize you've never been in anyone's frontview—you can't be when you're always running alongside just trying to catch up, just trying to match up. But at least he's gone and you just breathe, like it's the first time in years your chest muscles move and your shoulders are a little less strained at the weight of your little self-made hell on your back.

You hear the last of his muffled engine as he downshifts and speeds around the distant corner down the street, and you're plunged into the quiet of the last-call hour and the dark of night, and you feel like your life is (nowhere) back to black and white. It's the first reprieve you've had in months, the first good decision you've made in months. You've managed to do the next right thing.

Quiet now surrounds you, but something still is not quite right. Overhead, the street light flickers on with a high-pitched whine, and a triangle haze of heavy yellow light coming from the cheap sodium bulb rips through the tenuous black and white and thrusts you into strange shades of grey. Your back straightens and your shoulders tense, like you're waiting for something, expecting something. The street noise dies down to silence and, for a moment, it seems that time has stopped. He hasn't moved, hasn't blinked, hasn't breathed, and yet you just seem to know he's there. You sense him, feel him. You've been under the microscope again and you find yourself wondering how long, exactly, he's been watching. You know he sees everything.

"Hello, Sara." He's leaning against the brick of a building, suit coat hanging over one wrist and hands in his pockets, lingering about in the shadow, never quite leaving the darkness behind. He stands there casually poised and perfectly calm—not like he just downed a half of a bottle of 100-proof whiskey. But you know beneath that perfectly knotted but loosened tie, beneath that high-threadcount dress shirt, lay the reminders of sacrifice and a very personal war, the substance of legends etched and scared beneath his skin. He's not a mere man, he's an orphan transformed to Protector, defending the worthy while smiting demons amid gothic and macabre imagery and secretly laid plans. He's a dark hero—an Archangel faithfully standing guard with his back against the gate of paradise and his eyes looking out unwaveringly toward the perils of hell—but a hero nonetheless, replete with supernatural powers—Low Latent Inhibition and a genius intellect. Right now, you're in Michael Scofield's world, and in it reality is just as strange as fables. But today, amid alcohol's inebriation and anger's resentment, it's a lot less noble, too.

Your eyes roll shut at the sound of his voice—familiar, raspy, vibrating in the baritone register that sounds like and feels like and is as intoxicating as it always was. They warn you about this over and over again at every AA meeting, at every NA meeting—that tests come long before you're ever remotely prepared. Fake it till you make it, they say. Fake it till you make it, you hope and pray. But after a lifetime of faking everything, you wonder just how long that process is expected to take, how long it will be before you really do make it and become what you're supposed to be, not what you are.

There's a moment of awkward silence hanging in the space between you. Like a game of chess where players choose rival colors and stake claim to opposing sides, you're both gauging how the other's initial move might make this play out. You've played a similar scene in your mind a thousand times, practiced with a thousand calculated outcomes, all where you're victorious, yet not quite unscathed.

But Michael Scofield is patient. He spins the chessboard around and waits for you. White side and ladies first, it looks like, to make the opening move—a theoretical advantage. So you'll go with that—somebody else's rules—because the ones you set for yourself never stood, not for long, anyway.

So without a real plan, you make your move, one you'll know in the end will have you sacrificing more than just the first pawn. "Hello, Michael. How've you been?"

He makes his own first move. "Good, good…. Good." He punctuates the last word with an exaggerated positive note. He wants you both to believe it.

"Nice to see you," you say politely enough, though you find it hard to stand your ground and you shuffle back a step. "But, you know, you should call a cab. Hate to see a DUI land you back in…" You stop because you can't say prison. You just can't go back there to the place you never really left. "Have a good night," you say as you abandon the game and make a break for the car.

"Careful," he warns, knowing he can lure you back with a simple, vague statement. He moves a few pieces of his own across the files and ranks of the chessboard, caging you in. "There you go again."

You should know better than to turn back. You can't turn back. You can't.

But you do. Careful, indeed. You once told him you weren't a jealous woman, but a careful one. Too bad neither is true.

"Sorry?" It comes off like an unsure apology which makes you cringe inwardly. You're beginning to wonder if tonight—if any night—you're quick enough to outmaneuver him.

"There you go helping again," he continues. "It was always in your nature to want to help. Be the Change… and all that." He says it like he knows you, not just the person he read about in college yearbooks and newspaper clippings, not just a cog in his grand escape machine he manipulated from the inside of the penitentiary infirmary.

You swipe a pawn for yourself. "Where's your date?" You make a point of it to not look around for her or pretend you're interested. Deep down, you're anything but uninterested. Jealous, indeed.

He pulls a hand from a pocket and starts tapping his long fingers against the wall behind him. "Where's yours?"

Hey! It wasn't a date! Not in the traditional sense of the word. You shift uncomfortably and look away for a moment, acknowledging nothing… nothing he hasn't already seen.

He finally relents. "I called her a cab."

"First date?" you ask. It's uncertain how a man married to a Czech national for convenience can be on a first date, but you congratulate yourself because the inquiry seems pleasant enough.

"Maybe," he supposes, momentarily yielding as he raises his eyebrows and his lips curl into a slight smile. A spark of the old Michael hits his eyes for the first time tonight, but it fades quickly. "Or maybe nice guys finish last." He says nice guys like he's earnest.

Incredulously, you raise your eyebrows. Nice guy? By the looks of it, that's not what she thought, he was. Has she seen your feet yet, Michael? Or that shirt-and-sleeves beneath your shirt and sleeves? Of course she has, she knows exactly who he is—Michael Scofield, a big time hotshot with a big shot name and bad boy cachet.

Your skin starts to heat as your temper is being pricked. "Nice guy?" You think back to the stolen kiss in the infirmary… Wait for me… It won't always be like this… in this room… in this place…. He was supposed to be your nice guy. You had even agreed to wait. "That's ironic coming from the most wanted man in America."

"Formerly," he emphasizes, eyes narrow and sharp. He actually seems hurt for a moment, but recovers quickly. "That was a long time ago. Now I'm a national hero," he quips. "Famous."

You toy with the various incarnations of the word. Famous… Infamous... Whatever. It all still hurts just like it was yesterday. Still, you feign indifference. "Oh, I haven't heard." But that's a lie of course. You've caught every exposé, made-for-TV movie, and unauthorized biography to ever hit the airwaves because when someone takes down an international conspiracy and the upper echelons of government—the United States government—it tends to stay in the news for a long while. And in the dark and silence of the night when you can't bear the constant stream of noise inside your head, cable news becomes your devoted friend, and 2D images of Lincoln Burrows and Michael Scofield come to life, night after night, and lull you into restless, fitful sleep. They're your very own guardian demons.

"Haven't heard, huh?" he says, skeptically and slightly amused. You both know it isn't true. He gives you a measured look. You drop your eyes and shift under the weight of it to hide because one thing's for sure—Michael Scofield can manufacture anything, everything, even the truth behind your secrets, from nothing. He breathes in deeply and gives you that look that says he knows you know what he's about to tell you. "Then you'll be relieved to know that Bagwell's back on the inside. Maximum security." He reveals his strategy as he swipes a handful of your measly defended pawns—he's going to make it personal.

So you strike back, exasperated, before you can suppress the impulse. "Back? I'm sure it's such a comfort to the families of his victims because he shouldn't have been out in the first place!" You're not afraid to look him in the eye now.

He returns your look. It's penetrating and deep. He's studying his next move and you sense, once again, you're just along for the ride because Michael Scofield can bend bars and snap barbed wire and unlock the front door of a federal penitentiary, and he can bend your will his way. "You know Linc has a foundation…"

"So?" You don't want to hear it. You don't want to hear about anybody's good deeds or good news.

He advances with an appeal to temper you. "He's helping at-risk kids…"

"With interviews on 60 Minutes and tell-all books?"

He purses his lips and narrows his eyes knowingly. "Hadn't heard, huh?" he lashes out. "It's not what you think…"

"Thanks, but I got things pretty well figured out," you lash back, not interested in more fabrications and distortions.

"It's easy money for his foundation. For kids. For kids like LJ, and kids like the old Linc, and kids like me."

Well, now you know he's lying because you know there's never been anyone like Michael Scofield. "Oh," you scoff, tongue-tied and at a loss for words. "Really?" You should've left when you had a chance. This theoretical advantage nonsense is total bullshit.

"Linc's done everything he can to protect you. He never answers questions about you. Or us."

You snap at the audacity of his word. "Us?"

But he doesn't break. "And he only talks about the medical staff as whole, and when questions come up about that… about us," he emphasizes, "about Dr. Sara Tancredi, he always defers to me, and I never do interviews and I don't write books!" He doesn't stop between sentences and it reminds you of when he was in the infirmary the day before his brother was going to the electric chair and he was desperate and appealing to you for help, fidgeting with his hands and stumbling over his words.

"Like I said, comforting." He gets the irony.

"You didn't do anything wrong."

Now you're the one who's amused. "Is that what they told you when they pardoned your sentence, Michael? You did nothing wrong?" you say with a huff. "Because you should've said something about that before they stripped me of my medial license and arrested me in a hospital bed!" He tries to break in but you don't yield. "Are you going wax poetic now about optimism, hope, and faith?"

Through tenuous restraint, he grinds out his words, emphatic and sobering. "Lincoln's still alive. LJ has a father." With that, he upturns the chess board and all the pieces smash to smithereens. There's only one piece left standing—the white knight, your White Knight. "And we can get your life back."

We?... You dismiss him easily as you have plenty of instruction on that from the past. "You're drunk, Michael."

"This coming from an addict having dinner in a cocktail bar?" he retorts intentionally, ringing loud enough to hurt.

I didn't actually eat anything, thank you very much! Nor did you drink, but somehow stating so will sound defensive and forced, like a lie. So instead you do lie, but it feels like the god's-honest-truth. "What can I say, Michael? Sobriety's overrated."

His sour expression darkens to fury, and you know he took that as a pointed accusation as true as if he held that needle to your vein himself. He is the epitome of the fiercest calm, but in this very moment, it shatters—the invincible and ferocious Archangel slain with mere words.

You press on, hurt, but self-righteously undeterred. You never did know when to quit. "You got everything you wanted…"

"Not everything," he enunciates, his voice sharp and rough with anger. "Do you have any idea what this is doing to me?" he bites out. When you don't answer, he takes two strides forward and grabs you by the back of the arms pulling you flush against his body, ensnaring you. Startled, your arms rise up between you, flattened palms bracing against his chest. "Do you?" he snaps.

Your eyes are wide, shocked. You look down at his hands and back to his dark and stormy eyes draped in raging intensity and turbulent emotion.

"Do you?" he grinds out, his hands gripping even tighter on your arms. He shakes you even as he pushes you, pulls you, and into the alley and against the building, your coat and hair snagging on the jagged ridges of the brick.

Your eyes dart between each of his and you recognize the depth of desperation there. He sees it, too, reflected in your own face. In a flash, it hits you both. Despite the charm act and smiles, despite the cool, smooth façade, despite the playful, teasing banter, Michael Scofield is a dangerous man.

Moments tick by in silence. He finally lets go but leaves you bound, caught between the span of his arms as he braces his hands against the wall on either side of your shoulders. He collapses a bit, leans his head to the side of yours and against the brick, and the air he struggles to breathe fans across your neck. It warms you, yet the hair on the back of your neck stands up. His body presses against the length of yours. You suspect he's using you for support. You want to turn your head away, but his skin is warm even through your clothes, and his scent triggers your memories, your wants, your needs. You're helpless to move or escape.

He raises his forearms against the wall, his hands in fists. His shirt stretches across his shoulders and chest, his suit coat lying on the ground forgotten. Head hanging low, his cheek brushes against your skin as he nestles against your neck. He envelopes you, closes you both off to the outside world, to all that is real, all that was black and white. He smells of high-end soap and designer cologne and top-shelf whiskey. You breathe deeply and you find it, that salty, spiced scent—his scent—that lies beneath, and you wonder what would make him want to cover that up, even though that's what he's done from the beginning—cover things up, mask them. It's too much for you. You can't escape and you can't just turn away. His breath is ragged, hot on your neck, and it tingles its way down your spine. You feel just as dizzy as he is intoxicated.

"What do you want from me?" A familiar phrase, pulled raggedly from your chest. Shaking, you wait for somebody to answer, just like the first time you asked it in the infirmary. Wait for me, he replied. This time you want to answer before he does. Wait for me. It won't always be like this. I won't always be like this. But you don't. You can't. It's not true. It couldn't possibly be.

"I need…" he whispers. His voice is tight. "I need to know you're ok."

You feel tightness in your throat, your chest, and in the flesh between your legs. Your mouth falls open preparing to speak, but you can't even breathe. All you can do is tremble under the weight of the tension, the pressure, and the length of his body pressing against yours.

"I need to know you're ok, and I need you to know that I'm not."

Your heart hammers so hard it threatens to shatter. For the second time tonight, you realize that he's his own collateral damage. "You think too highly of me. I can't rescue you. They stripped me of my authority to heal."

"It's killing me, Sara. I wanted to be with you and it's killing me to know you'll never believe that."

It's for your own good, his own good. You can't be his anchor when you're barely treading water. "We all have our crosses to bear."

He pulls back and levels a heavy, confining look on you, but you can't look him in the eye. He licks his lips, he trembles. "I need you to do something for me." You tremble, too. "One thing," he sighs. "Then I'll let you go."

All you want to do is escape. You should've fled earlier. You may have negotiated your way out of positions like this before. Plenty of times. But this is the first time you've been in front of Michael Scofield, and he's not accustomed to being denied. You can't speak, you can't breathe, and … One thing?... you certainly can't agree to his terms. You just wait, captive. Wait for me, it won't always be like this, whispers in your mind.

The heat of alcohol and desperation and desire roll off him and heats his cologne. The sweet smell of 18 year old single malt on his breath affects you as surely as you drank it yourself. Head spinning slightly, you let go of the wall and hold on, fisting his shirt at his waist, transfixed on every breath and heartbeat. You know what's coming. You can feel it in the tensioned hum of his muscles and in the strained grumble in his chest when he speaks. When you look in his eyes—and he won't finish with his demands until you do—you know you're powerless to do anything but what he wants. And you know what he wants because you want it, too.

It would go like this. Larger than life, he'll tower above you and consume the space in between. He'll put on his jacket and pull you close, molding you to him. He'll escort you out of the shadows and down the street, calling, Taxi!, and it won't even occur to you to take your car. He'll hover over you possessively, then he'll reach down to unlatch the rear passenger door as the cab rushes up, all without dropping his intense gaze. His hand will fall to your back as he guides you in. You'll give him plenty of room in the car, and he'll let you, at first, under the auspices of the driver. Even so, his presence will be overwhelming. As you look outside the window, your heart will pound, your flesh will tingle, and it will all settle achingly and insistent down low and high up between your legs. You'll know exactly where this is going.

He won't be able maintain this level of decorum and decency for long, though. He'll caress and stroke, grasp and kiss your hand, devour you with his darkened, hungry eyes. You'll be entranced, and you'll realize later that this is why he wouldn't allow you to drive. He'll pay for the cab and then exit. He'll reach back and say, Take my hand, just as he said once before during the riots. So you will and, just like that time not so long ago you'll wonder if you are being pulled out of the proverbial hot pan and into a consuming fire.

You'll take the key out of the lock and he'll push open the door in a demanding gesture – ladies first. Polite as it may be, he's also not allowing you an escape. He'll follow right behind you with a gentle push on your back leading you on in. There'll be enough light filtering in through the uncovered windows, so you won't bother with lights. He'll notice the space and the high ceilings and the molding because that is who he is and what he does. You'll note he seems to approve, and you'll be pleased because this space might be the one distinction you have left.

The TV will still be on. Cable news. When Michael's and Lincoln's images fill the screen, you'll fumble for the remote. Hadn't heard, huh?, will trail in your mind. But he won't say anything about it or your previous battle of words and wills. He'll focus solely and completely on you. He'll slip his coat off and he'll pull at the loosened knot on his tie. In a swift move that will have him stalking behind you, he'll pull the remote from your hand while pulling you flush against him. He won't turn off the TV, but he'll deftly manage the mute button, and you'll both be bathed in a halo of flickering and shifting blues and greys.

You'll let him turn you around as he pushes you, pulls you toward the wall. Your coat and shoes will lay abandoned as he hovers over you, holding your head still while he pulls and drags his thumbs across your lower lip. He'll licks his lips, barely getting his tongue out of the way before he captures you with a kiss of punishing, unapologetic intensity. It'll be all pent up need and want, entitlement, anger, desire, resentment, but want and need most of all. One by one, the buttons of your blouse will come undone with skillful economy and you'll feel the heat of him on your bare belly as he reaches underneath your arms and grabs the back of your opened blouse, stripping it from you, trailing his fingers down your back.

He'll still be mostly clothed as his hands are everywhere on you, but roaming too fast to satisfy any need. He'll lay kisses down your neck and shoulders, and he'll sink to one knee as he kisses around your navel and shimmies the waist of your unzipped jeans over your hips. He'll trail kisses lower and lower still until he mouths the soft cloth of your panties over the V between your legs, all softness and hot air.

You'll have that moment of female panic where you'll judge what you think he might see as he stands and his eyes rake over your body on the way up. Unconsciously, you'll cross your arms hesitantly, but he'll brush your hands away and clasp your fingers between his. He'll pull one hand to his mouth and kiss your palm while placing your other hand right over his heart and the inked sword blade the demon unwaveringly wields at his chest. He'll slow things down. He'll wait. If you want him, it's clear you'll need to make the next move. He is nothing if not intensely patient. He'll give you the time to decide and even make you think you had a choice. It won't take too many shallow and panting breaths to capture his lips, as if there was no decision to make at all.

He'll take your hand and lead you across the room. You'll pass by the corner table at the end of the couch. Your heart will drop a bit—you don't want to do this here, not over the back of the couch. Not with him. You'll hesitate. But he'll turn back, pulling you flush against him as you kiss and stroke and caress your way down the hall with him to your bedroom.

You'll slip your hands inside his opened shirt, over his shoulders, pushing the fabric down his arms. His sleeves of tattoos will be slowly revealed in the shallow light, peeking out of his t-shirt from deltoid to wrist, a dark strip of lines and figures showing themselves at the hem of his neckline. You'll not have seen his tattoos since he lay blanketed in angel-white linens after the surgery you performed on what you know now to be his accidentally self-inflicted shoulder wound. He'll cross his arms, tug at his t-shirt and lift it over his head, uncovering them all to you. Your hands will be roaming before he can even drop his shirt to the floor. You'll trace the dark patterns between his collarbones and wrists, those covering his chest and sitting low on his hips, the angels, the demons… You'll be momentarily mesmerized. When you finally catch his gaze, his eyes will be consuming and unrelenting. Maybe he'll be self-conscious like you were a moment before—a moment of ex-con panic where he'll judge what he thinks you might see. But that's not the case. The tattoos don't define him. They were just a means to an end. He exudes confidence and desire, and he'll wait for you to get your fill before he'll lay you down on the bed.

He'll leave you there momentarily as he unbuckles his belt and slides it from the loops at his waist. You'll wonder what he's thinking as he stands there and fingers it while he rakes his gaze over you. Ultimately, he'll discard it with the rest of his clothes before he collapses on top of you with his knee pushing its way between yours.

He'll pull a condom packet from the pocket of his pants he just left strewn on the floor. You'll have a passing thought that this condom was meant not for you, but for the blonde from the bar. But he'll not give you time to worry about that as he shifts his weight and you nestle him in the curve of your pelvis, your limbs tangling with his.

You'll wake later, freely his, entangled in his arms, his lips hot and moist against your skin. He'll push the sheets down, uncovering you with his caresses and teases. Momentarily, he'll leave you as he heads into the bathroom. You'll hear a couple of drawers slide open and shut, and he'll come out with your box of condoms. His look will be penetrating and deep, demanding and dark. He'll say the first words he's said since the cab ride—These are ours now—as he takes out a packet and tables the box. These are ours. You won't have to agree. It will just be. He'll notice you've since covered up in his absence, and, Tsk-tsk, he'll warn as he pulls back the sheet. He'll climb in behind you and maneuver your position until you're on your back and sheltered beneath his weight.

Once again, it's all need. He'll lick and kiss and tease until you're panting and whimpering. Eventually, he'll clasp your hands, drag them over your head and pin them down with one of his—he won't even need the belt. He'll lift one of your legs high against his hip, cradling it from behind your knee as he thrusts. He'll say things like, Look at me, Sara, which you'll do, and, You're mine, Sara, which you already know. And you'll come apart just like that, no control. Barely holding on, he'll say, Fuck, baby, in a hoarse voiceand follow right behind.

Hours later, you'll finally make it out of bed. Days later, he'll still be there, always within arm's reach. You'll run errands together, cook, pay bills, make love. You'll start new rules—again—like never eating after 6, and you'll never drink, and never eat chocolate. You'll have cookouts with Lincoln and LJ and Jane—LJ will call you Aunt Sara and Linc will still call you Doc —and they'll treat you like family. He'll give you rides to AA meetings and your public service and to meet your probation officer. He'll help you dodge the paparazzi and the news, and he'll stay true to his word—he'll never do interviews. Somehow, the applications to reinstate your medical license just show up in the mail and you'll find you actually have the bravery to fill them out. You'll doubt where all the courage came from.

Weeks later, you'll become aware that you feel more beautiful than you are, seem smarter than you are, you're more confident than you should be. A realization will follow you softly at first, then it will come to weigh on you like a ton of bricks—you've started to hope. You've started to hope, and it's because of him. And you'll look at him and start to wonder what else the blush of love has aggrandized.

After a while, your self-consciousness will sneak back in. If his love makes you more than you are, is the inverse true? Does your love make him less? Doubters do doubt, and it'll leave its own blush of sorts—it taints everything, ruins everything, and you'll both stumble in the debris. You'll be more stressed, have more anxiety. You'll go to more AA meetings, if just to have some time alone. You'll argue more with him. Sex will be less frequent—but he'll still press his body to yours, anchoring himself, as he senses the distance coming—and it'll always be in the dark because you'll not feel as sexy as he'll assure you that you are. And when your medical license finally does get reinstated, you'll argue that night and say you don't want him around anymore. You can't say you're ruining his life, because that won't be enough to force him to let go. Instead, you'll accuse him of staying only because he's a rescuer, and you're fine now—not that you ever needed rescuing anyway, and that this is all Lincoln's fault so go blame him, and that quelling his lingering guilt about Fox River is no basis for a relationship. And you'll say you never got attached because you knew it would never last. You'll argue and he'll plead, but he'll finally leave, if only because he'll think he can rescue things later. Deep down, you'll know this is for the best. It's for his own good. And that night you'll skip your AA meeting.

The next day, he'll pound on your front door and say things like, Open the door, Sara, which you won't do,and, Please, Sara, which you'll ignore. And he'll fall apart just like that, no control. Barely holding on, he'll say, Fuck, baby, in a hoarse voice… and return the way he came. Then you'll take it as a sign that you were right and that he never did love you when he isn't serious enough to break in and fight for you. He'll call… Please, don't hang up on me. Lincoln will call… Don't hang up, for fuck's sake, Doc. Again and again. You won't even bother with the voice messages. You'll venture out for a new phone with a new number at that tech shop right next to that liquor store. After all, you can't outwait fate. And that night you'll skip your AA meeting, too.

He dares a touch to your cheek to wake you from your thoughts and you're plunged back into the present, into the quiet of the last-call hour and the dark of night. You're a little dazed and quite confused as you brace yourself against the brick building with him towering over you, arms raised against the wall, shirt pulling across his chest.

Overhead, the street lamp flickers off again and shades of grey instantly changes reassuringly to more black than white. He pulls back and levels his eyes on you, but you can't look him in the eye. He licks his lips, he trembles. "I need you to do something for me." You tremble, too.

But he doesn't lead you by the hand away from the shadows and down into the street to hail a cab. He stays still, deadly still, ragged breathing and blood pounding the only sounds. "One question, Sara. The truth." He says it like he knows what the truth is, like he knows what the truth should be, like he wants to bear the weight of it no matter what it is. "The truth. Then I'll let you go." He closes his eyes and presses his lips together. "Why?" It's all he can manage.

Why? Why what? He should clarify. There are a lot of whys and a lot of whats. Why did he have to meet you there in that place?Because you knew you couldn't confront rehab—again, and because there you didn't have to make up rules. Because Daddy used you as a political tool, and Mom didn't care enough to stop drinking. Because you might be Tancredi's daughter, but you'll be damned if someone thinks you're Frontier Justice Frank's girl. And because you killed a boy on a bike when you should have been able to help, but you were just a privileged trust-fund baby with a drug problem from a dysfunctional family. Because you wanted to Be the Change. You wanted to change. Because you wanted to help.

Why? Why did you open the door?Because your ethics and principles wouldn't allow you what you honestly believed to be an innocent man to be put to death, and your spite couldn't let Daddy take that from you, too. Because the first covenant of the Hippocratic Oath pledged you to do no harm nor take another's life in the name of political expediency. Because Daddy—the Governor, the public servant—was just a political tool and he refused to absolve you of all your past sins and intercede in time—the only time it really mattered—when it was the very real difference between life and death. Because you couldn't be the one responsible for taking away the brother from the man holding your heart, your peace, your future. Because you wanted to Be the Change. You wanted to change. Because you wanted to help, and because he asked, and because he was the very real difference between life and death.

Why? Why did you try to kill yourself?Because you allowed yourself to be played again—you hadn't even seen it coming this time. Because you constructed yourself precariously with order, tireless order, and did nothing but set order to a house of cards. Because he walked in and opened the doors of all the rules you designed and your house of cards swayed and collapsed in the breeze. Because he said you were the only one who could help, and he said, Take my hand, and, Wait for me, and, It won't always be like this, then left you to face the monsters on your own. Because sobriety is overrated. Because you were the very real difference between someone's life—his life—even if it meant the death of yours.

So aiding and abetting was the solution. You opened the escape route. You left the infirmary door unlocked after you opened the narcotic cabinet door. You left the keys behind on your desk and walked out the front door of a federal penitentiary, never looking back. You shot up because First, Do No Harm only applies only to doctors who practice medicine, to those who can heal. You shot up because you wanted to Be the Change, but couldn't. You wanted to change, but couldn't. Because you wanted to help, but it left you with nothing, and there would be no rescue, no recovery, no redemption from that.

And now you're here, and he wants things from you. It's not as simple as why. He wants answers and reasons, a life, understanding, forgiveness. He wants you. He's asking you to both stay and come back all at once. And he'll stay—steadfast, with dogged, pointless tenacity—only because he's a rescuer, because of guilt, because he asked you to wait. But you'll argue and he'll plead, but you'll finally leave. You'll know deep down it is for the best. It's for his own good.

You're suddenly aware of meaning that shakes you. Grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change… It will always be this way. You will always be this way. You are an addict.

"Why?" It's all he says.

You can't answer why. If you don't strictly dose your words, they'll come out… I love you… and then he'll stay… I love you… and you'll have to leave…. I love you… and you're both lost. So on a breath of a whisper, you muster the courage to change the things you can in the only way you know how. You'll do the next right thing. You know deep down it is for the best. It's for his own good. "This is the part where I don't answer you."

You break free from him, surprised that he doesn't try to stop you. You're out into the light of the street, leaving the darkness behind. Accept the things I cannot change, repeats in your head. Hurried, you cross the street and you force yourself to not look back. You know he doesn't look back either.

A few more steps away and you hear it.

"Sara?"

This time you know better. You can't turn back. You can't.

But you do.

A cab has pulled up alongside the curb. The window's down, and a woman's arm drapes over the edge—the blonde from earlier tonight.

You hear it again, "Sarah…" The delivery is more relaxed. "What are you doing here?"

"I thought you might need some help," she says, waving a new bottle of Jack out the window that she just rustled out of a paper bag, "so I came to find you."

He shakes out his suit coat and slips it on. He looks like a man made new. Even at this distance you can hear his keys jingle in a pocket as he straightens his lapels. "Well, I know what you did. The question is, are you woman enough to admit it?" He makes a point of displaying his turned out pants pockets. A charm act with a smile.

"Did you lose your keys?" she questions out the cab window.

He raises an eyebrow in a playful accusation. "And here I thought you were a nice girl."

"Whatever gave you that idea?" She laughs. "And anyway, I didn't take them."

It's true, and you all know it, but the blonde, unaware that you're in on this conversation, is more than willing to play along.

"Well," she coaxes, "if you're locked out for the night, you could just stay at my place."

"I thought you'd never ask." His expression darkens. He looks up and just over the low roof of the cab and across the street to you. "It was real, Sara. You and me. It was real."

The cab door opens and he climbs in. He meets your eye through the window as he passes you by and you fall out of his purview, lost in his rearview. You hear the last of his muffled engine as the cab driver downshifts and speeds around the distant corner down the street, and you're plunged into the quiet and dark of night.

You don't know how much time passes. No taxis drive by. Eventually, you're cold enough to tighten your coat and put on your gloves. You jingle your keys out of your purse as you slowly approach your parked car. You start the car and put it in drive, then downshift and turn the corner. You know deep down it is for the best. It's for your own good. Tonight, you'll go to your AA meeting because you'll always be this way—you're an addict—and you have your cross to bear.

~ finis ~