Author's Note: this story was (clearly) inspired by Les Laisons Dangereuses, and I promise it won't be as tragic and maybe almost as smutty. This is set after the final prison break episode, although I've chosen not to regard the movie that was made afterwards. Sara never went to prison and she and Michael did have a wedding night, and a few months together before he died. Also, I decided to ignore the fact that Kellerman visibly becomes a politician. Well, this is getting awkwardly long; hope you'll enjoy this : )
CHAPTER 1
The atmosphere was lugubrious, and even more so was the young woman's face, at the front row, whose peachy cheeks were dry from tears, but the look in her eyes was worth a river of grief.
To be a widow before the age of thirty was what many people considered a tragedy, to watch youth and love be cut down in their prime gave most a poignant feeling of unfairness, should the couple be strangers. But not Paul Kellerman. When he watched that particular widow lay a red rose on her husband's grave, with that flaming hair gathered on her left shoulder, the only thought that came to his mind was: waste.
The wedding ring around her finger was a reminder of her status as a widow, most certainly, but more than that, a wife. In fact, what Kellerman read in that gold circle was an inner vow: that she would remain faithful and ever so in love with her departed husband, should it condemn her to a life of loneliness.
Indeed, that was what Kellerman would call a waste, especially when the woman in question was as attractive as Sara Tancredi.
The peaceful weather and clouded sky matched the idea he had of funerals. The young woman took a step backwards to join the rest of the crowd when they lay her husband's body down to rest, and as she watched the casket being drawn into the ground, her eyes filled up with a swamp of sadness – and resignation. Almost as though nothing in this world could disturb her from her grief. But then, with almost too perfect a timing, he caught her eyes. A breath of anger parted her lips, a silent protest, and Kellerman had to repress a grin. She would hate him, surely, if he should smile at Michael Scofield's burial, even more than she'd hate him for merely showing up; even more than she hated him already.
Sara fixedly looked back at the casket, but her cheeks were crimson red, the heated blush of outrage. Kellerman had expected her anger; his presence here was undoubtedly inappropriate, but it was necessary as the first stage of his plan.
Holding her head high, Sara was visibly offended that her attention had been perturbed – and disruption was precisely the idea. It was, in Kellerman's book, a good beginning.
To give her a new reason to be angry at him, after he'd saved her and her husband from a life on the run – what had turned out to be a tragically short life – after he'd laid Scylla into most capable hands, and allowed her and Scofield to begin and end a happy life together. After he'd tortured her with iron and water, and a certain amount of attempts to kill each other had followed.
Inappropriately showing up at her husband's funeral should be enough to anger her, which would be a way to strike up a conversation like any other. Besides, if Kellerman was going to be an obstacle in the way of Sara's grief, he figured it was smarter to start right away. Because there was no way such a beautiful woman should remain a widow till the end of her days.
Because he'd wanted her since they'd eaten a blueberry pie together, and he'd watched her lick sweet syrup from her fingers.
Because it'd been a while since Paul Kellerman had truly wanted anything, and he sometimes liked to indulge himself in such desires.
Because he'd already played Sara Tancredi once and it would be a fine challenge, and why the hell not?
He lowered his eyes in feigned respect for the dead, to ensure he'd appear as respectful as they come when Sara would look at him – and she would, look at him. He glanced her way just soon enough to meet her eyes and watch that colorful blush mature from rose to blood.
Paul Kellerman didn't consider himself an honorable man, or that to seduce a beautiful young widow to satisfy his own appetite, only weeks after her husband's death, was beneath him. To draw her into his games without asking whether or not she wanted to play wasn't, after all, worse than his usual standards.
He didn't exactly give thought to what state he would leave her in afterwards, whether it'd be better or worse. He didn't care. He wouldn't care; that was the only condition he had set upon himself.
Before he made his move, Kellerman waited for the crowd to have slowly cleared the cemetery and for Lincoln Burrows, the no doubt territorial brother-in-law, to have momentarily slipped out. Sara stood alone by her husband's grave, and the look on her face was perhaps graver – except now, it was slightly forced. His presence had upset her, and she'd needed to refocus on her grief.
Though Kellerman knew that she would make no move to approach him, he had not come here not to approach her. With an unhurried gait that would allow her to acknowledge his presence, he made his way to the tombstone, in silence, apparently unintrusive.
"What are you doing here?"
But of course, Sara sounded intruded. Kellerman had been expecting this. The tone of his reply was deliberately earnest, "I meant to apologize. I didn't mean to surprise you, earlier. I understand seeing me may have upset you."
"You're not the reason I'm upset today, Kellerman."
How she determinedly gazed at the tombstone both looked devoted and an excuse not to meet his eyes. He was looking at her, and knew that she could feel it. The nervousness was audible in the way she breathed.
He watched her for a second more before he went on. "But you do believe that my coming here was improper. I didn't mean to offend you."
"Offend me?" The scoff it tore out of her was humorless; she didn't sound heartsick, but heartbroken. "From what I recall, Paul, you're not one to stop at such trifling restraints."
"And it's precisely what I cared to apologize about. I'm a changed man, Sara." He added, and this much got enough of her attention to draw her eyes on his – maybe she was just assessing his sincerity. There was enough of it on display on his face that it may look genuine.
After a short moment, she looked away, the sliver of bewilderment in her hazel eyes a delight that he needed to refrain himself from smiling at.
"Even so," Sara said. "I can't think of a reason why you'd come here."
"Would it be so ridiculous to think that I want to make amends?"
"Not ridiculous." She admitted, but her eyes were still set on her husband's tomb. "Maybe just slightly out of character."
"Think whatever you'd like of me, Sara – but I do care about you." He reckoned that taking the fall for her in court had been one way to demonstrate it.
Kellerman lowered his eyes to appraise the young woman's silhouette, and repressed another grin at the subtle curve of her belly, unsuccessfully masked by her black dress.
"And in the state you're in," he continued, just as earnest, "you're going to need a friend."
Those last words had her clench her jaw. He could tell her reply would be cold as ice, before she said anything. "What I need right now, Paul, is to be left alone."
A man's footsteps approached, loudly enough for Kellerman to bite his tongue. A second later, Lincoln's hand was flying upon Sara's shoulder, and his eyes were dancing from her to Kellerman as if to assess what had been the nature of their conversation.
"I wasn't expecting to see you here, Paul." Lincoln ultimately said, and there was enough sharpness in his voice to indicate that his presence wasn't only unexpected but unwanted.
The older brother's animosity was clear as crystal. Kellerman had saved their lives, a few months ago, which forced Lincoln to behave civilly in his presence; but this would not make him forget that he'd murdered Lincoln's ex-girlfriend and her husband, that he had tried to choke him to death or that he'd left Sara to drown in a bathtub.
Kellerman looked back at Sara as he answered. "I came to send my regards."
Lincoln's hold tightened around his sister-in-law. "Come on, Sara. Let's go."
Both turned around to leave, and just when Lincoln's hand dropped back to his side, Kellerman's was prompt enough to catch Sara's wrist; careful to be gentle – she needed to know it was in his range – but firm enough for her to turn back.
"I do wish you well, Sara." He asserted, tenderly enough to startle her.
A sliver of protective rage flew into Lincoln's eyes. Sara looked back at Kellerman, with an awareness that might have made him fear exposure, had he not been the master of lie.
Determined and cold as death, all dressed in black, Kellerman decided he'd never seen her more beautiful than now.
"I appreciate that," Sara said, and seemed to mean it. "And, from now on, I'd appreciate that you let me be."
Stealing away from Kellerman's hold, she and Lincoln Burrows walked away and Kellerman let them go. He had expected her to show resistance and, truly, would have been disappointed to encounter none. After all, where would be the challenge in seducing her, if she was inclined to be seduced? It would be a while, and would require many efforts, for her to accept him as a friend, before he became essential to her happiness.
Kellerman thought it'd be quite the excitement to watch her betray her vows to her dead husband, to watch her battle with her beliefs, and be unable to resist him.
Kellerman turned back towards the grave, an unspoken mockery to the late Michael Scofield.
He had played the man's wife before, but what had happened the first time around could not be tolerated again. Kellerman had cared for Sara, once. The tight-gripping panic that had overwhelmed him when he'd watched his men clean her wrecked apartment could serve as evidence.
This would not happen a second time. Kellerman was, after all, accustomed to ruthlessness. If he could bear to listen to a victim beg for their life, then surely he could tolerate the sight of Sara's torment, as he brought her to surrender. His victory over her would consist of making the thought of pleasing him her sole priority.
How unoriginal, he though upon walking away, to seduce an unwilling victim.
Sadly for Sara Scofield, Paul Kellerman had always been a fan of clichés.
