Title: Postcards
Characters: Michael, Sara, Lincoln, LJ, Sucre, Maricruz, Jane.
Summary: Like Caribbean sands through a crystal blue hourglass, so are these days of their lives. Some are waiting, some are getting on with their lives, all of them are enjoying the now.
Genre: General, humour, romance, fluff. Post-Sona.
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Prison Break? Not mine.
"I just want my brother's life back. I want people to know the truth.
I'd give anything for that. I'd lay down my life."
Well, his brother did get his life back - sort of. People did find out the truth - for the most part. And Michael did give up a lot for it to happen - but not his life. Nor did any of his loved ones.
Yes, they're aliiive, with all body parts present and correct. Well. Minus here a toe, there a toe.
Each chapter is a snippet or glimpse - a 'postcard' - of Michael's, Sara's and Lincoln's lives in Panama, and their friends and family who come and go. Although, they're quite episodic, the chapters don't skip around and events happen pretty much chronologically.
NB - This actually started life as a series, but as each new entry drew more and more on the preceding ones, I realised the whole thing would probably read better as just one long story. There are a few changes, but should you read this and think it sounds a bit familiar, probably find you might have read it as part of the original series.
Chapter 1: Threads
Features: Michael
Summary: What we want, and what we have. He ponders...
Perhaps it was a result of his upbringing. A love born from lack rather than plenty.
He slid his legs across the mattress, encountering the expected. Coarse, rough, slightly stiff. Not the longed for. Cool, smooth, soft. Linc had called his love wussy. Well, actually, not so much his love. Him. And, to be honest, he'd said pussy.
But, hey, they were his memories, and he liked to edit them for the better.
They say you always remember your first. He had scoffed when he'd heard that. He'd scoffed at a lot, back then. Michael Scoffield. First what, exactly?
Well, he would discover, anything that leaves an impression. Is momentous. Significant. Life changing. And the amazing, yet sad, thing is that you might not recognise an occasion as such while it's happening. But your subconscious will. And when you're ready to grasp the significance, it's there. Stored for you. Safe. Shining. A moment in time. But with it, the sadness. Because you didn't realise it as it happened. Because you'd have held on tightly, if you did. Absorbed it into your skin, your cells. Until every second of that first was a part of you.
Vee. So appropriate. One of them. Deeply woven into the fabric of their lives. She'd introduced him to it. Taken him by the hand and led him to the bed. Pulled back the covers and started stroking, stroking.
"Feel, Michael. Just feel."
"Vee, I don't think we should be doing this! It's really- "
"Please, Michael, for me? You're not like Linc - I know you're not. He really doesn't care, doesn't think it's important... Please, Mike. For me. Here - just take my hand."
And that was it. Game over. He'd sunk to the bed in delight. Nerve endings dancing with pleasure.
"See? This is how it could be. How it should feel. And you could have this. Always. It's what I want for you, Mike. You deserve it. Can you feel it? Do you- do you see it?"
Oh, yes. He had. Every single, tightly woven, interlocked thread. 800 count, Egyptian cotton sheets. Love.
Vee, laughing. Dragging him off the bed, as the store's floor manager watched them suspiciously. Dismissively. Until it had been time to pay. Julia Roberts? Bite me. Pretty Man...
He'd chosen, since, not to sleep on anything less. There was simply nothing he loved to feel more against his skin. Except warm, soft, silky, female flesh. The two together? Bliss.
Life in prison? God, hell.
He stirred, cheek brushing against soft, silky warmth.
Life in exile? Definite improvement. He grinned sleepily.
"Well. That's some smile - pleasant thoughts?"
"Mmmmmph... memories. Vee and cotton sheets... "
Oh. Crap.
Night on the floor? Dusty.