Author's Note:
Spoiler warning for up to and including episode 4x16! (Though technically I'm not using much of anything from the last few episodes.)

First of all, Merry Christmas! Second of all, apologies for taking so long to update. I'm not a very frequent writer, so please don't expect weekly updates from me. Thirdly, I really hate what they're doing to the plot of Prison Break lately, and it's slowly killing my zest to write more fanfic. I'm not sure how much more of this Scylla/Company mess I can take before I lose interest in the show altogether. It's much more fun right now to play in my own slightly AUish universe here in this story than watching the actual episodes. So maybe that's what I should keep doing. On a less fanficcy note, anyone who's interested in my PB rants can check out my LiveJournal at tj_teejay [dot] livejournal [dot] com.

MsGenevieve, I hope you forgive me for borrowing one of Sara's lines from your story "Invisible" (which I highly recommend).

xxXXxx

Chapter 7

He was putting on a brave face, but Sara knew that was just the cloak that Michael chose to shroud himself in. The cracks in his façade were widening, and that was enough for her to understand that it was bad.

Her mind suddenly flashed back to that moment in the hotel room, weeks ago, when he had ripped open his arm on a piece of metal and she had dabbed the open wound with peroxide. He hadn't even flinched once. "I have a high tolerance for pain," he had told her.

With that in mind, she couldn't imagine what he was going through now, but this she knew: It was surpassing his tolerance threshold. His once so vibrant eyes now only radiated exhaustion and physical ache. Whenever she looked into them, he consigned a piece of his pain to her. What she wanted more than anything was to absorb some of it, but she knew it didn't work that way.

What was even worse was his stubbornness. Or maybe it wasn't just that. It was that blend of stubbornness, altruism and martyrdom that he had made his own. Just a few hours ago, she had articulated something that had gnawed her the rim of her consciousness for a long time. Long before she had consciously realized it, he reminded her more and more of her father, the way he was putting everyone else's problems before his own. It was getting harder and harder every day, struggling to reconcile the disaccord of her love for him and her resentment for his unwaning selfless loyalty.

She knew that openly acquiescing to her father's and Michael's similarity had hurt him. She knew it wasn't what he wanted to hear, and she knew that he needed support more than accusations from her right now. It was just getting so hard to keep up appearances, to rein in her doubts and fears and the urge to shake some sense into him every time he refused to have the surgery.

From across the room, she watched him vigilantly, the way his shoulders were slumped forward, his head in his hands. It seemed to be his predominant stance these days. She wondered if he even remembered what it felt like not to be in constant pain.

She slowly ambled over to the sofa and gingerly sat down next to him. She felt the warmth of his skin through the fabric of his jeans when she touched his thigh. "Michael," she said just above a whisper. "It's late. You should get some rest."

It seemed like it was an effort for him to lift his head when he looked at her. "You know we can't afford a good night's sleep right now."

She didn't care that she sounded like a broken record. "You can't keep going like this. Have you looked at yourself in the mirror lately? Michael, you look more alive than you are."

"I can't have the surgery right now," he weakly insisted.

"I know," she said softly. "But that doesn't mean that you can't rest. When is the last time you slept more than 4 hours at a time?"

He tiredly rubbed his hand across his forehead, and that was enough of an answer.

She looked over to the table where Lincoln and Sucre were engaged in conversation, her silent cry for help. As if Lincoln could read her mind, he turned his head in her direction and met her gaze. It didn't give her any consolation.

She turned her attention back to Michael. "Look, there's nothing we can do tonight, not until the morning." She nudged her head in the direction of the boat. "A bed is really the best place for you right now." She took his hand. "Please come with me."

His gaze on her was weary. "Sara..."

She shook her head. That wasn't what she had in mind. "I can sleep on one of the cots."

"No," he whispered. "I'd rather have you with me."

xxXXxx

He opened his eyes when she sat down on the bed next to his stretched out form. She wondered if he had even noticed that she had left the boat a few minutes ago.

She took the syringe and pierced its needle through the rubber cap of the now upside down glass vial she had gotten from the med kit. The clear liquid filled the syringe as she pulled the plunger downwards. She heard Michael's tired voice.

"What are you doing?"

"You're in pain. This'll make it go away, at least for a while."

He sighed. "Sara, I don't want it."

"I know. I'm gonna give it to you anyway."

He sat up, maybe a little too suddenly because he sucked in a sharp breath. "I don't want it!" he hissed at her.

"You don't win extra points for being a fucking martyr, Michael."

What followed was a pronounced silence. She became too conscious of her own breathing. She didn't dare look into his eyes for a few, agonizing seconds, and when she finally did, there was surprise as well as anger staring right at her.

"What do you want from me?" he asked sharply.

His anger only fueled her desire to quell his anguish. "I want you to let me take your pain away, just this once. Because it's the only way I know how to help you."

He fell silent, his brow furrowing. His gaze went to the syringe in her hand. "What is it?"

"Morphine."

It took a moment to sink in. "I... I didn't know you were keeping any of it around."

They were both too aware of her history with intravenously injected drugs. "Michael," she sighed, "I'm not keeping it around for me."

"You've never...?"

"Used any of it?" she completed the question.

"No. Thought about using it?"

Her mouth formed a thin line. "To be honest, I didn't even remember it was in the med kit until now. It's not like I've had a lot of time to dwell on our medical supplies lately, is it?"

His expression softened. "I'm sorry," he whispered.

She nodded slowly. "Will you let me give it to you?"

He didn't say anything but held out his arm to her. She had long gotten used to seeing it covered in scars that had healed now and didn't quite look like angry, red snakes on his laser maimed skin anymore.

Just as she expected, he didn't even flinch when the needle penetrated his skin and she injected the opiate analgesic into his veins. She prayed it would act quickly and relieve him of his burden—if only temporarily.

xxXXxx

When she woke at just around 5:30 AM, Michael was soundly lost in slumber next to her. A brief flutter of relief washed through her. Finally he was getting a good night's sleep. Quietly she got her things and retreated to what they called the women's bathroom. Ironic, because she was and always had been the only woman in this place.

In the kitchen she poured some milk over the last remnants of cereal. She didn't even notice anymore that it tasted slightly stale.

Out of the corner of her eyes, she saw something moving in the shadows, and she recognized Sucre's well-toned shape walking in her direction.

"Buenos días," he greeted her. The vigor and naivety she liked so much about him was absent from his voice. They were all tired.

"Can't sleep?" she asked.

"Look who's talking."

She studied the oatmeal floating around in her bowl, then cracked an ironic smile. "I never used to have problems with insomnia. Funny how things can change."

"You know, I wouldn't have this problem if Lincoln didn't snore like a lumberjack cutting down the Puerto Rican rain forest."

Her smiled widened. She had never pegged Lincoln for a snorer, but somehow it fit. She looked up at Sucre. "I think I saw a pair of earplugs in the med kit."

The sputter from the coffee maker captured Sucre's attention. It was one of the few amenities that the warehouse's kitchen had to offer. A bright smile lit up his face. "You made coffee?"

She nodded, chewing on another spoon of cereal and watched him pour himself a mug. No milk, one sugar.

He stood next to her, both leaning against the counter. "Hey, uh," he broke the silence, "can I ask you something?"

"Sure."

"Michael, is he..."

She looked at him, not sure what his next words were going to be.

"... is he gonna be okay?"

She released a breath. "I don't know. He needs surgery."

"So... if he doesn't get it, he's..."

She stopped chewing and looked at Sucre. "Are you asking me if he's gonna die?"

"Yeah, I guess I am," he quietly admitted.

"I don't know," she only repeated. "Things are going to get a lot worse if he doesn't get treatment." Her voice lowered a notch. "I'm hoping it won't come to that."

"Is there anything I can do?"

Sara smiled a sad smile. It was somehow sweet of Fernando to ask. "Short of handcuffing him and dragging him into an operating room, no."

The corners of his mouth went up, but didn't quite form a full smile. "But, you know, I could try to talk to him or something."

It's not as if she hadn't tried. Again and again. It didn't do any good then, and she very much doubted it would do any good now, coming from Sucre. Still, anything that might convince Michael to seek treatment could only be a good thing.

She shrugged. "You can try."

They were both quiet for a long moment, Sara's spoon clanging against the ceramic cereal bowl, scraping at the last remnants of milk and muesli at the bottom. Sucre's voice broke the silence.

"Did you know that it's Lincoln's birthday today?"

She looked at him, surprised. "No."

The fact that she hadn't known wasn't particularly shocking, the things that were on their minds right now seemed so much bigger than what was going on in their private lives. Not that any of them had much of a private life right now.

Filled with newfound resolve, she put the cereal bowl in the sink and turned to go. "I'll be back in an hour."

"Okay."

His gaze followed her and suddenly he wondered in how many ways Michael would kill him if he knew he had let Sara go out on her own. He put his half-full mug on the counter and jogged across the room, catching up with her. "Wait up. I'm coming with you."

xxXXxx