After a few minutes of deliberation – the three men trying to concoct a plan when, really, this was a simple situation, and any solution they came up with wouldn't need to be elaborate – it was decided the group would storm the cabin and take it back from T-Bag.

What else was there to be done?

After a while, Sara stopped listening to their chatter, maybe out of boredom or because she was still a little drunk.

And what's the plan for you, now, honey? Playing nice and waiting for a chance to stab them in the back?

Backstabbing sounds a little cowardly when you put it like that, but Sara reckoned when four men break into your home in the middle of the night, things are put into perspective. And isn't all fair in love and war?

Michael said except if anyone had anything else to add, they should get going, and he placed himself at Sara's side – not holding her by the arm, not making her feel like a prisoner outright. But if anything had changed between them since he'd tackled her to the ground and they'd both stared terrified into each other's eyes, the difference was too slight to count for much.

He walked right next to her, Abruzzi a couple of steps ahead and Lincoln in the back.

Look at that. I get an escort.

Nothing was fair about this, in the end, and she'd be damned if this wasn't love or war but some unimaginable combination of both.

The men had switched off their flashlights, in case T-Bag should have wandered outside the house to meet them. Though Sara had tried to convince them this was unlikely – drunk and injured as he was – none of them were inclined to underestimate him again. They walked at enough distance from each other that Sara wasn't sure the others could overhear when Michael spoke to her.

"This shouldn't have happened. Your being left alone with Bagwell."

She heard a wry sigh part her own lips. "I keep hearing about what shouldn't have happened. Do you think that makes a difference?" She tried to keep silent, but the rest came out all the same. "That your perfect plans are half as real as what did happen?"

"No." His voice was cold, with something burning below surface. Michael Scofield was a paradox, she thought. Always one thing and its opposite rolled into one.

Anger was simmering inside Sara, eager to get out. What did she care, that he was sorry? Following the logic of sleepless frenzy, she wanted to punish him not for but with her own suffering. T-Bag's lips on hers, fixing him a sandwich while he watched, all the while thinking to herself she had no idea what had just happened, what was currently happening. Michael, she felt, should see this and pay for it.

Why him and not the others?

Easy. Because he cared. Because it'd hurt him, and maybe Sara would score some points and it would matter, in their mental battle against each other.

A few days ago, Sara thought, I was safe, I was healing, and I was sober. If the inmates' sudden irruption into her life was going to destroy her, then why shouldn't she at least use it to destroy Michael Scofield in the process?

"Did he hurt you?" The words were still icy cold in Michael's mouth. Did he want her to destroy him, too? "Bagwell. Did he?"

Sara was silent, not because she didn't want to say the truth, but out of sheer confusion as to what the truth was. "What difference does it make?"

"A huge difference," he said.

"Why?"

Then he was the one to hesitate, barely a second, before he explained. "When this is over, I want to know exactly what I'm responsible for."

Sara stopped looking at the ground – dark, wet, mushy leaves – to appraise him. Maybe I picked him to bear the blame of this whole thing because he agrees to bear the burden himself.

"Whatever for?" She said. Wanted him to hear the absurdity of it. "Because you'll pay?"

He swallowed. In his voice, nothing betrayed emotion. "One day."

"Yeah." She chuckled. "Sure."

"You don't know me, Sara. You don't know –"

"I know you're the one who broke them out of prison." She argued, finally revealed the hunch she'd had no means to verify before.

Part of her urged her to stop, not to reveal what she knew, to show her hand. But lack of sleep is inebriating, and she was half a bottle away from sober anyway.

"Whatever you men are planning," she continued, "I know you're the one behind it." King among Cons, she thought of the nickname without smiling.

Michael's face was impassive. "What else do you know?"

"What's easy to guess. Tell me, how many others like me are there?"

"Excuse me?"

"How many others," she repeated. Suddenly, Sara felt elated, drunk on the gratification of existing once again, of having power, of winning. How does he like me without my hands tied? "People who got hurt," she continued, "who got in the way. Things you didn't mean to happen but didn't stop from happening. Be realistic. Do you think it really matters that you keep track of all that, that you'll really come back one day and make amends? And how do you intend to do that? How do you think you'll mend me, Michael?"

His blue stare was shocked and silent. Now, she could see feeling in his eyes, asking her to stop. Why should he expect mercy? What had she to be merciful for?

Then, Sara took advantage of his surprise to quickly glance at Abruzzi, ahead of them, and Lincoln behind. Neither man seemed aware of their conversation. Maybe this was the right time to play one last card – if she was going to make it out alive, she was going to need an ally.

"What?" She said, on the same tone. "Did you really expect I'd forgive you for my own death, make it easy on you?"

"Don't." He'd never spoken so harshly to her. It took her aback but didn't slow her down. "You're not going to die."

"Abruzzi won't leave this place while I'm alive. I'm too much of a liability. Aren't you supposed to be the smart one?"

"Abruzzi's under control."

"You really think that?"

A tremor on his lips indicated he wasn't. Not one hundred percent, anyway.

Before Sara could add a word, though, there was a loud call, precisely from Abruzzi. "What's all this whispering about? You two better be sweet-talking to each other, because if it's conspiracy, let me tell you, we're not going to get along."

"Shut up, John." Lincoln growled. "You know? I think I could fill a book with all the times I've told you to shut up. It's just not taking, is it?"

"We all ought to be quiet now." Michael said. "We're close enough."

It seemed to Sara his tone was different – different from when he addressed her only. The men stopped walking, and Sara stilled right along. Through the meshes of leaves and branches, she could make out a faint glimmer beaming ahead. That cabin in the woods was starting to feel like a decent substitute for hell.

End Notes: I wanted another 'quiet' chapter before getting to the confrontation. Please let me know your thoughts and theories as always.