Author's Note: I think this chapter brought something to the table that this story needed. Let me know any and all of your thoughts :)
Disclaimer: I do not, nor will I ever, own any of these characters. Prison Break and all related elements, characters, and indicia are copyright Paul Scheuring, 20th Century Fox Television, Adelstein-Parouse Productions, and Original Television.
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Michael, Lincoln, and Sucre had paced mindlessly around the rather small motel room from the moment Sara closed the door behind her, almost constantly sneaking glances out of the front window, hoping to see them pull up. Abruzzi, however, seemed more preoccupied with something else, predominantly his life if Fibonacci wasn't dead before Falzone's trial.
Sucre had sat down on the edge of one of the beds and turned on the television, flipping through the channels until he came to the first news broadcast he found. He turned the volume up substantially, wanting to hear what was going on.
"Out of the eight convicts that managed to escape from Fox River Penitentiary, seven are still at large, with Benjamin "C-Note" Franklin being gunned down shortly after the escape. He is survived by a wife, DeeDee, and his young daughter. FBI Agent Mahone has personally issued a reward for any information leading to the capture of these dangerous men. Twenty five thousand dollars each for Michael Scofield, Fernando Sucre, John Abruzzi, Theodore "T-Bag" Bagwell, David "Tweener" Apolskis, and Charles "Haywire" Patoshik. A doubling fifty thousand is up for Lincoln Burrows, the escaped death row inmate, found guilty of murdering now-President Caroline Reynolds brother, Terrance Steadman. Warden Henry Pope, Vice President Frank Tancredi, Chicago law enforcement, and the FBI are working as a collective unit, vowing to recapture the fugitives. When asked for further comment, all parties denied except Agent Mahone, who provided us with what we know thus far. We have to take a short break, but we'll back with your weather on the ones."
Sucre muted the TV and tossed the remote on the bed, putting his head in his hands and sighing right before the door opened. Sara and Veronica barged in, plastic bags strewn all the way up both of their arms as Veronica pushed the door shut with her foot. The four men rushed over to relieve the women of the load, setting the bags on the closest bed. They all took seats in various places on the beds, their gazes urging the girls to start handing out clothes. Veronica felt obliged to do the honors, noticing how uncomfortable Sara already was.
"Alright, we each have two suits of clothes," she said, pulling out two pairs of stylishly faded dark blue jeans and two polo shirts, one red, and one dark blue, tossing them to Sucre.
The man looked like a little kid on Christmas morning, having just discovered all the goods Santa had left him under the tree. He couldn't contain his excitement as he repeatedly thanked them, acting like the clothes were the equivalent of the answer to life.
John got a couple pairs of dark slacks, and two short sleeved dress shirts. Lincoln got cargo jeans and white tee shirts. Michael got a pair of khaki pants and faded jeans, a white dress shirt, and a dark green long sleeved tee shirt.
Sara and Veronica didn't share their clothes with the rest of them, instead moving on to handing Michael the other supplies as he went over his mental checklist.
When the bags were empty, he rose with a suit of his clothes and started walking across the room. Turning his head, he threw a quick "thank you" over his shoulder before closing the bathroom door behind him, eager to clean himself up, even if the burn on his back prevented him from showering. He found an ugly tan washcloth draped over the towel rack and wet it under the faucet, steam quickly filling the bathroom. He stripped off his old long sleeve shirt, no longer smelling like a thrift store, and let it fall at his feet, followed his tee shirt. The hem of the shirt got caught on his bandage as he pulled it over his head, tearing it off and sending it dragging across his hideous burn. He winced in pain and bit his lip, determined not to cry out as he finished removing the shirt and dropped it on the floor, staring at it like it was a demon. He muttered a string of obscenities under his breath as he sat on the toilet and removed his shoes and pants, standing up and bracing his hands on either side of the sink, staring at himself in the mirror. The man that stared back was one he didn't recognize, a man that only vaguely resembled the structural engineer with the fancy apartment, nice clothes, and fat paycheck. This man was one of instinct, a primitive convict whose only concern was that of his family, his brother. His brother and nephew were the only things this man had left. He could no longer be a structural engineer due to his felony charge, but he no longer cared about any of that. He was realizing that he was never happy with that life, something always missing. A family. Fulfillment. Happiness.
He wrung out the rag and held it over his face, determined to snap himself out of those thoughts. He tilted his head back and closed his eyes under the rag, letting the heat soothe his tense muscles in his face. The door flew open, causing him to snap forward, the cloth dropping in the sink and he spun around to see Sara closing the gap between them. Her little fleece jacket was gone, she was clad only in a small red tee shirt clinging to all of her curves, and a pair of black leggings. Her auburn hair was down, no longer in its usual ponytail, bouncing with every step she took. In two seconds flat, she was inches from him, staring into his eyes, her hands roaming over the intricate artwork covering his torso. Her fingers flicked over one of his nipples, drawing a deep sigh from him as he cupped her face in his hands, bending his head to capture her lips with his. He could taste her passion, her desire, her lust. He ached to satisfy her in every way she deemed fit, to take away every ounce of pain that he and anyone else had ever caused her. His fingers danced lightly across her ribcage, down her sides, until they rested on her hips, pulling her closer, wanting to feel every contour of her body pressed against him. Her hands were on his back now, her fingers digging into his flesh as he caused moans to escape her lips. Even as she was so caught up in the moment, in him, she was ever so careful not to touch his burn, avoiding everything she could that would risk ending their encounter in the bathroom, which was being overrun with more steam as each second passed. She allowed her fingers to dance on the nape of his neck as she drew his head closer, deepening the kiss, parting her lips slightly. His tongue crept inside her mouth, finding hers, his passion evident. She let her teeth close softly on his tongue, drawing another moan from deep inside him, turning her on even more. His fingers roamed freely down over her buttocks until his hands were on the back of her thighs, enabling him to pick her up and spin around, sitting her on the ledge of the sink. She was thankful for the gesture, unsure of how much longer her legs would've been able to hold her up. His head was now tilted up for the kiss, her forehead resting against his, damp strands of her hair brushing against his face now and then. His fingers were now free to creep under the hem of her shirt, raising it with extremely slow excruciation, much slower than she preferred. The fabric now left her light purple lace bra exposed, her naturally pale skin becoming flushed from the heat, her nipples hardening at the thought of everything that was about to come, including herself. After all of the trials and tribulations life had thrown at her, she was finally being rewarded with the ultimate form of payback. Completion. She was sharing a moment with the man she loved, a moment which she ultimately knew was the best one she'd had in her life thus far. His finger slid under the left strap of her bra, sliding it down so he could kiss her shoulder, moving across to her neck, and over to her other shoulder, sliding that strap down, also. She now had to lean her head back, the pleasure becoming overwhelming, the simple touch of his skin on hers enough to drive her wild, out of her mind. She found that she could lean back and rest her head against the mirrored medicine cabinet, only further aiding her in the support department. Lord knows she was going to need all the help she could get with that, Michael's lips now kissing her abdomen, his tongue flicking the skin near her navel. She gently laid her hands on the back of his head, not having anywhere else to put them, instead letting his head guide them. Her breathing had become rapid, and now short, ragged breaths somehow managed to escape her throat. Her eyes were closed against the light above, even though the bulb wasn't visible through the steam, the light still shone brightly. The sheer essence of the moment made his toes burn, his head spin.
"Michael…" Her voice was a breathless plea, a weak whisper.
"Sara." He replied to her in between kisses, trailing back up her side. Her words echoed in his head, becoming louder.
"Michael…" His eyes snapped open as he heard her again. "Michael?" It was more of a question now. There was a knock on the door, and he spun around, realizing that his washcloth had stopped up the sink, the hot water overflowing, scalding his feet. He shut the water off quickly.
"Yeah?"
"I heard water hitting the floor. Is everything okay?"
"Uh, yeah," he said, still trying to recover from his fantasy. "Never dozed off standing up before. I'll be out in a minute.
"Okay…" Her words were soft, sounding like she wanted to say something more, the concern being evident in her voice.
He plunged his hand in the sink and grabbed the rag, setting out to finish up. The cloth was steaming, opening up all of his pores as he started cleaning himself to the best of his ability. He had to turn around and crane his neck to look in the mirror to wash around the burn, a task which proved to be a feat in itself. He furiously tried to scrub off his tattoos, his scars that reminded him that the past was real, reminded him off all the sacrifices he made for his plan, of all the lives altered for the worse, his included. In the end, the ink remained, his skin being rubbed raw, near bleeding as he towel dried whatever moisture was left on his body. He ripped the price tag and stickers off his pants, sliding them on over his boxers. He cursed himself for forgetting to have Veronica buy them new underwear, this prison garb wasn't going to cut it. He sighed heavily as he cracked the door, steam flooding out into the room, only Sucre and Sara in close proximity.
"Hey, uh, Sucre. Can you grab that bag there and come wrap up my burn?"
"I would, papi, but I don't think I'd be of much help," he lifted his injured arm a little, showing his limited range of motion.
"Oh. Yeah, don't worry about it, I got it," he said, walking over and grabbing the bag with the gauze and antibiotics.
"Michael, did you forget there's a doctor here?" Sucre immediately wished he hadn't said anything, his face turning red as he turned towards Sara. "I--I'm sorry, I didn't mean to volunteer you, just used to the prison and everything." He quickly shut his mouth and lowered his head, Sara letting out a soft laugh.
"It's okay." She turned her attention to Michael. "I can help you with that, if you want." He froze, bag in hand, and glanced around the room, hoping to find something to save him. Finding nothing, he agreed.
"If you don't mind."
She followed him into the bathroom which was now almost empty of the steam which had been there moments earlier. Surfaces were still moist, the mirror still fogged over, but the visibility was fine. He braced himself against the sink again, partially because he knew bandaging the wound would hurt, and because of his fantasy about the woman who was standing behind him, her fingers graciously grazing his back as she applied the medicated gauze pad, taping all the sides. She noticed that Sucre was occupied with news reports again, and seized the opportunity to speak.
"Are you sure you're alright, Michael? I mean, people don't usually fall asleep standing up." There was an overwhelming amount of genuine concern in her voice, making his heart cringe at the guilt he felt.
"I'm, uh, yeah, I'm fine. Just tired, I guess." Sara could sense that something else was going on with him, but decided not to push the issue.
"Alright then." He could tell she didn't believe him, and he knew she probably wouldn't. She'd been the only one who had ever been able to see through any facade he put up. "All finished," she said, walking out of the bathroom, leaving him alone with his thoughts.
He took his dirty clothes and spread them over the puddle of the floor, trying to dry the wet tile. Sitting on the edge of the bathtub, he slid on his dirty socks and his new green long sleeve cotton tee, enjoying the warmth it brought him, despite the high temperature in the steamy bathroom. He placed his head in his hands, trying to remember his dream as vividly as possible, aching to recall the feel of her flushed skin against his lips, the taste of her mouth, the sound of her moans…