Hello! This is another little one-shot that sort of the follows the storyline I started with Blue. I've decided that I'll post any future oneshots to this story for neatness and simplicity, whenever inspiration strikes. I hope you enjoy!

xxxxxx

"I used to dream about it a lot."

Sara turned to where he laid on the couch, his eyes trained directly on her with all their intensity. "About what?" She asked, reaching for the remote. She turned the sound down before deciding to just switch it off completely. She wasn't in the mood for an overdramatic Spanish soap opera anyway.

"Well, more daydream, really," he clarified, more to himself than her, she thought. "The subconscious stuff was harder to control."

"Okay," she answered, leaving him to realize that he hadn't answered her question. He would work it out eventually, probably today, and in the meantime she wanted something cool to drink. He had promised her breezy Panamanian afternoons in a hammock, but he hadn't mentioned the stifling midday and she was already parched.

"How we might have met outside. "

So it was today after all.

"We were going to run into each other at Caribou one day. You were going to spill your coffee all over me."

"Hardly," she snorted, offended at her imagined clumsiness even though she thought he was being rather sweet. "You would have been the one to spill all over me."

He smiled. "At least it would have given me an excuse to get your number, so I could pay for the dry-clean."

"And then what?" She smirked, knowing her husband like the back of her hand, "I don't charm easily over the phone."

"No?"

"If you didn't have those eyes on you, Scofield, your life would have been a lot harder."

"Hmm, good thing I made an impression by spilling all over you then," he reminded her. "By the way, you would have made a remark about the Freudian implications."

"I'm not that forward."

"No, but you would have tried to find humor in a frustrating situation."

She glanced at him just in time to see his eyes change from mischievous to admiring. "Alright, so you've managed to phone-flirt and bring me my dry-cleaning in an entirely unthreatening way. Now what?"

"Oh, the rest of the fantasies consist of picnics at Millenium where I dazzle you with my sheer genius."

"Uh-huh."

"Then I take you home to my fancy apartment with my fancy king-size bed and make love to you until you've forgotten your own name."

"Uh-huh," she snorted sarcastically.

He grinned. "You know I can."

"Not the point."

"What is?"

"I don't like picnics."

"We go on beach picnics all the time."

"Beach picnics are different to grass picnics."

"How so?"

"I'm not allergic to sand."

He laughed. "Alright, I will change my old fantasy to a picnic at North Ave."

"We're still going to have mind-blowing sex?"

"Absolutely."

"On the beach?"

"No, I like my fancy king-size bed."

"So snobby," she teased.

"I married the governor's daughter, what did you expect?"

"Not on purpose."

"That just proves my point," he gave her a lazy smile from the couch. "I'm naturally attracted to the finer things in life."

That pulled a smile from her even though she didn't want it to. It always amazed her that Michael was able to look at her, knowing all the mistakes she'd made, and still think so highly of her.

Then again, it occurred to her that she did the same for him.

Still smiling, she brought her drink over to the low table and curled up under his arm. She lazily drew over his other arm for a few minutes before sitting up and swatting him playfully.

"You lied."

He raised a challenging brow at her. "Did I?"

"You said I would spill the coffee."

Blue flashed away from her and reached for the remote. "Are you still on that? I already conceded your point and changed it to me."

"Yes. Exactly."

He still wasn't looking at her. She clasped her hand around his to make him stop flipping through channels.

"You had that version all planned out, all the way up to the Freudian implications and the dry-cleaning," she smiled mischievously.

He finally looked back at her, his cheeks flushed. "What's your point?"

"One," she said, holding up her fingers, "do you always daydream about dirtying women's clothes? And two, it's your turn to do the laundry."

He flushed more deeply but still managed to answer. "Just your clothes, Dr. Tancredi. And I believe I still have to get them dirty."

She smiled. "When will that happen?"

"When there's no danger of dying from heat stroke."

Laughing, she went to get more water. "Fair enough, let me know when you think it's safe for me to start the coffee."