Sara wakes up with a start in an unfamiliar bed to the irritating sound of a ringing phone. Her hands search idly for a light and as she sits up to take in her surroundings, a blinding headache hits her temples. Her body feels sticky with sweat and dirt and the room is uncomfortably hot, despite the pouring rain tapping angrily against the window.
She grabs the phone and barks, "What?" before wincing at the pain the vibrations of her own voice triggers in her heavy head.
"There's Tylenol in the nightstand's drawer, if you need any."
Her new Company friend sounds very amused. She hears him chuckling as she sends the small lamp flying to the ground while carelessly reaching for the medicine.
"Get ready, Sara. I'll be waiting for you at the hotel's entrance in an hour. I suggest you take a shower and put on some clean clothes. And look at the file I left for you."
She hears a click followed by a disconnected ring tone before she has time to tell him to go to hell.
She swallows a few pills and a copious amount of water to soothe her dry mouth before heading for the bathroom. Showering would probably make her feel better if the hot water didn't bite so viciously at her sunburnt skin. She hisses and swears as she washes away the previous day.
She is indeed refreshed, although still hung over, when she exits the shower and notices a set of clean clothes on a hanger by the door. Putting them on without hurting either her head or skin proves difficult as she has to keep her movements to a bare minimum.
Back in her hotel bedroom, Sara sits on the bed for a while, waiting for the pills to kick in and trying to make sense of what is happening to her yet again. She has a Kellerman clone on her back, her head is killing her and Michael is back in jail. Things are looking up indeed.
She finds the file on the small desk facing the bed and sits back to skim through it rapidly before the phone rings again.
"It's time."
"What…" Before she can finish, the line is beeping idly again.
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"I need to find my brother," he all but shouts the second the call is picked up.
"Lincoln.?"
"Yeah, hi. Look, my brother is missing, I think he's in jail but I don't…"
"Hold on, will you? We're on it," Jane cuts him, her matter-of-fact voice only adding to his recklessness.
"What? You know where he is?" he yells, his fury taking over.
"Yes, I've been trying to reach you but your phone won't pick up."
"Yeah, I lost it. Where is he?"
"Sona. It's a federal penitentiary. He's in it deep."
"No kidding."
"I don't mean with just the police."
"I figured as much."
"You need to find Sara."
"Sara?" His head hits the phone booth before he confesses between clenched teeth, "I lost her last night. She wouldn't go with me. What does she…"
"You need to find her. Find her before they do. And keep me posted."
"Okay. Wait, is everything okay on your end?"
"LJ's fine. Go and get her. Now."
He curses as he slams back the receiver, before snapping at no one in particular, "How the hell am I supposed to do that?"
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"You have the rudest phone manners, you know that, right?"
"Did you have time to read the file?"
"Some of it. You don't expect me to tattoo all that over my body, do you?"
He laughs good-naturedly at her question and shakes his head. "Not if you do your homework. You'll need to memorize it, give him hints, point him in the right direction. Get in," he adds before opening the car's door for her.
He starts the engine and she stares idly by the window, reacquainting herself with the city, amazed at how different it looks after the rain. More familiar.
"Start reading," he orders before greeting her with his trademark's smirk.
"Reading in cars makes me sick," she replies coolly, mimicking his obnoxious grin. She's terribly annoyed to be the source of his apparent amusement, and he reminds her more of Kellerman by the minute. She wishes she could erase that smirk with a well adjusted punch to his jaw but is only too aware that she would be facing the wrong side of a gun seconds later. Besides, she fights like a girl.
"Just tell me when I need to stop the car, then," he replies, completely un-phased.
"Look, do you have a name? I'm uncomfortable hating people without knowing how they're called."
"Agent Richard Johnson, if you must know. Do you need a business card, or will that be all?"
"Well, Richard –mind if I call you Dick?"
"Yes, I do. Agent Johnson will do just fine."
"Okay, Dick," she continues, obviously pleased, "just know that I have no problem whatsoever with ruining your car's carpet."
"As you wish, I only thought you wouldn't want to visit your boyfriend while smelling like puke."
"Fine! Bastard," she adds under her breath before opening the file and resuming her reading, ignoring Agent Johnson's barely repressed laughter.
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When he parks in front of the Penitenciaría Federal de Sona, it's not raining anymore and the high sun is reflecting blindingly on the wet pavement. Her head feels better although she still feels like she hasn't drunk a drop of water in days.
Richard, or "Dick" as she has taken on calling him, satisfied to finally find a way to bother him, opens the car door for her and puts a hand on the small of her back to lead her to the front entrance. She tries to brush him off, but as he's persistent as he's aggravating and she suspects he does it only to exasperate her.
Once inside the Panamanian prison hall, feeling awkward and completely out of place, Sara had never wished more that she had actually paid attention in her high school Spanish classes.
Dick, on the other hand, seems perfectly at ease, joking amicably with the locals before slipping them discretely a few folded bills, reflecting their beaming smiles.
"I'll be waiting by the car. Now, I'm sure I don't need to tell you this, but were you stupid enough to mention our conversations to Scofield, you'd be facing a lot worse than a nasty headache. Am I making myself clear?"
"Crystal, Dick," she breathes without looking at him, now entirely focused on the guard gesturing for her to follow. She needs to get ready to walk to Michael and lie to his face.
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He's almost surprised to have survived his first night without a scratch. He hasn't had a second of sleep, unable as he was to stay oblivious to the thick chaos surrounding him. The morning feels heavy and the air is so thick his clothes are clinging uncomfortably to his body. He doesn't join the inmates wandering in the hallways, in fact, he hasn't moved from the spot he sat on last night. His mind is racing, trying to make some sense out of it all.
"Hey, Americano!" he hears a guard yell, and first thinks they must be addressing someone else. Probably Mahone, his Company pals are bound to work their magic to get him out of here, at least to place a neat, shiny bullet in his skull.
When the man shows up at the open door of his cell and motions for him to follow, he finally rises up and reluctantly steps out to walk down the hallway, trying to avoid looking at the display of pure misery he passes. Junkies collapsed on the ground, men looking at him as if he was a slice of fine bread after months of famine, and isn't that Bellick holding his broken jaw as he sits by a huge, intimidating prisoner?
"Visitor!" the guard announces as he leads him to a remote area of the prison. He can't help noticing the architecture, tracing maps in his head, trying to locate every possible exit. It has become a second nature.
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A middle-aged woman in a uniform searches her before letting her in a small, surprisingly dark room, empty but for a table and two chairs. The tiny window loos out onto a deserted courtyard. She tries to imagine Michael walking around it, a prisoner again, helpless and without her to patch him up at the end of the day. This escape business sounds better to her by the minute.
But when he enters the room and plants his eyes in hers, she has to look away. Maybe it's the dejà-vu, maybe it's the prospect of lying to him when she wants nothing but to drag him out with her and walk into the sunset for real. Or maybe it's the knowledge that he's here for what she's done. For killing a man. She murdered a man because of Michael, hell, she might have killed two if no one had stopped her, and nothing will ever be the same.
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"What are you doing here, Sara?"
"Uh, visiting you?"
"I can see that. Why?" he insists, watching her face intently, trying to read what she won't say with words. Something is off, he felt it instantly when he walked in and she averted her eyes when they met his.
"What do you mean, why? We are… Look, I just want to make sure you're okay."
"I'm as good as can be. Where is Lincoln?"
"I don't know. We split last night."
"What? Why? You can't stay on your own."
"Of course I can." She looks distant, unreachable. They're not connecting, they're barely even communicating. There's a wall behind her eyes and his gut instinct tells him something very wrong is going on, what? She obviously won't say. That doesn't mean he can't try.
"Sara, what is it?" he asks softly, letting his hand move to caress the tip of her fingers.
"I don't know what you're talking about," she replies absently before looking away again to watch a procession of black bugs making their way to a small hole by the opposite wall. How can he stand to even breathe in this place?
"Right. You won't look at me because you'd rather stare at the cockroaches?"
His words make her jolt ant she meets his eyes this time as she murmurs, "You can't stay here, Michael."
"Yeah, well, since I'm not up for another grandiose escape…"
Her heart races and her eyes lights up. She tries to convey everything she can't say with a look. "What if you were?"
"What if I were?" he repeats, incredulous. "Have you lost your mind?"
"You escaped Fox River," she whispers excitedly, "a modern, high security prison. This place has nothing on it. I'm sure you could pull it off. There has to be a way."
"I planned the Fox River break out for months. I tattooed the blueprints all over myself. I studied them until I was on the brink of insanity. That's how I got away. I'm no Houdini, there is no way I could repeat that little trick."
"What if I helped you from the outside?" she says before biting her lips, shamed at her own suggestion.
"No. No way. I'm not putting you in any more danger."
She forces herself to look down, terrified that her eyes might betray her. He always seems to read her like an open book, although she now knows most of his clever deductions were only educated guesses, the result of a long and methodical work or research. She has almost forgiven him for that.
"Are you… Something happened, didn't it? They got to you?" he asks, raising his voice as panic sets on his face.
"I don't know what…" When their eyes meet again, she knows the battle is lost. His eyes are frantically studying her, trying to tell her apart, before his jaw clenches so hard his lips looks like a fine line.
"Who?" he breathes dangerously.
"Michael…"
"They asked you to help me escape, didn't they?"
"I… I have all the information you'd need."
"To break out," he supplies. When she doesn't answer, he asks, "You weren't going to tell me." It's a statement, not a question, and there is no mistaking the sadness in his voice.
"He said if I… Well, I'm sure you can guess the rest." He nods in response and can't help feeling hurt; all the while knowing she had no choice. Still, he had hoped they were past lies and secrets.
"Can you gain some time?"
"I think so," she breathes, looking at him desperately, trying to read his now expressionless face. "Michael, are we okay? I meant what I said, you know. Before." She pauses before adding reluctantly, "I love you." Saying these words in this place seems to alter them somehow, and she almost resents herself for spoiling them.
But the look he gives her then alleviates her fears. His gaze is so intense she feels it slowly melting her body from head to toe, and when he whispers her name and repeats the same three words, three little words she never knew could move and shatter her that much; she knows she'll find a way to work things out. Apparently, there's not much she wouldn't do for Michael Scofield.
They brush fingers again lightly and this time, their smiles are genuine.
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"How did it go?"
"Fine. Just fine. Let's drive back, okay? I need a nap."
"You realise you'll have to tell me everything in detail, don't you?"
"Right. I'm a regular Mata-Hari."
"Well then, get ready to dance."
"Oh, you're a witty one, alright."
When she's comfortably sprawled on the passenger seat, she whispers "Night, Dick," and instantly falls asleep, relieved to postpone the inevitable confrontation.
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