Michael circles around Sara, their movements habitual, following the same path they do every night. It's only been a few weeks, but they've already settled in a routine. It was something of a steady comfort to them after all those months not knowing where they were going to end up, to know that at the end of the day, they were both going to wind up snuggled into the same bed, wrapped up in each other with nothing but thoughts of the future to drift them silently to sleep.
Sara was still radiating with excitement from the barbecue they'd just hosted, a house warming of sorts that felt domestic in a way she hadn't allowed herself to dream about until recently.
She finds herself sitting in bed, this time before Michael, which was odd, her routine usually taking longer than his. Blaming her scattered mind on the comment that had been thrown her way by her friend, she settles into the sheets, grabbing her lotion, and slowly massaging it over her hands, a luxury she'd picked back up as soon as allowed.
Michael stands by the dresser, his back turned to her, looking like he's taking his watch off, but his muscles tense, his fingers coming to his temple, and she can't help the shot of fear that races through her, scattering goosebumps across her body.
"You okay?" She asks from bed, the once pampering motion of moistening her hands now turned into something more akin to wringing as the nerves take over.
He pauses for a moment, as if preparing himself to face her, and then she turns his head, a soft smile meant to dissipate her fears, instead alerting her to something being off.
"I'm fine," he whispers, lowering his watch onto the dresser, and making his way over to the bed. As he slowly climbs in, she lowers herself down to where she's holding her head up, her elbow resting on the pillow, as he sits towering above her.
Her free hand doesn't waste a second in tracing the veins of his forearm, his favorite game of her's, a ticklish glint always present in his eyes when she does so.
However, tonight the glint is missing, instead worry brewing a storm beneath the surface, the race of blood flowing under the fingertips indicating a change.
"You know, it was pointed out by several people tonight that I'm apparently showing already," she says with a raise of her eyebrow, her thumb rubbing over the bone jutting out on his wrist.
"Hmm," he agrees, distracted.
"You agree then? I'm fat." She throws out trying to catch his attention, all the while her concern growing with his lack of focus…or rather his focus on something else. She can't quite put her finger on what, but he'd been acting different. When he'd come to sit down and eat, he'd answered questions politely enough, but he'd withdrawn, she could see it. Sinking further and further into himself, quietly harboring something, protecting her from a piece of information that was now silently eating away at him.
"What? No," he says with a slight laugh, but it feels forced, not like usual.
Her hand migrates to his face, the slight stubble pricking her fingers, a caution of danger dancing across her fingertips, his eyes flickering to her movement.
"Michael, where are you tonight?" She asks, as he takes a deep breath. His exhale traveling across her arm, as if the weight of the world had somehow climbed onto his back, and his name escaping her lips was his call to come back home.
"I'm right here," he says, eyes focusing on her, his hand making its way to her shirt, slightly pulling it up to examine her statement, before splaying his long fingers across her barely there bump, the first real smile she'd seen since dinner.
Scooting closer, he seemed to wrap her up, his grip tight, as if she were going somewhere, or rather…he was going somewhere. The desperation in his fingertips vibrating down to her womb, the clear turmoil ruminating inside him percolating its way to the surface, bubbling over into her.
"There's definitely a bump," he agrees, the slight curvature barely noticeable to those not looking for it, but the elevation of his hand leaves a smile ghosting across his face.
"He's just eager to see his dad," she says, her belief that this baby was a boy something that only grew with each passing day, call it mother's intuition.
He freezes, his brow knitting together before steeling his expression.
"You're not still insisting we name him Michael are you?" He asks with a cringe, and she can't help the laugh that comes from her at his distaste of her choice.
"It's a good, strong name," She argues, the same argument she's been reiterating for weeks, wanting another Michael Scofield around, only embargoed by the original Michael Scofield's insistence that it was possibly the worst idea ever. Throwing out every name he could think of to try to persuade her otherwise.
She prepares for his rebuttal, his reasons vast and detailed, the conversation usually ending with no clear decision, just two stubborn parents who want what's best for their baby.
But not tonight. She can see it, that storm in his eyes, the one threatening to take him far out to sea, strand him somewhere nowhere near her.
His thumb rubs small circles across her stomach, his eyes transfixed on the motion, eyelashes fluttering with indecision, before he looks up at her.
"I'll agree on one condition…" he leads, not so much defeat shading his stipulation, as pure desperation clouding his thoughts, time racing across his face as if there was no tomorrow, not many more months left to debate this until the birth.
Her hand moves atop his, stilling his thumb, worry completely overtaking her.
"You never call him Junior," he says in complete seriousness. The request not outlandish, knowing how much he disliked the thought of his name, outside of just Scofield, being passed on to his kid. But the use of you, not we. That struck her as odd. As if he were writing himself out of this equation before the problem even began.
"Michael," she says with a shaky voice, hoping that she was just reading too much into everything, old habits dying hard, and not witnessing the start of a goodbye.
"Promise me," he says, like a dying wish.
"I promise," she says, as if it were a given. Refusing to deny him anything, the concession of the name screaming at her that something was off.
He nods, his eyes crinkling sadly, as if the thought of a name to go with the child had cemented an answer to a question she didn't even know was being asked.
Sliding down until his head reached the pillow, his hand never leaving where their child rested below.
Her elbow flops down, lowering her head to where his lay, baited breath held between them, the future having seemed so sure just moments ago, its direction now forked, with Michael having chosen a path Sara wasn't even aware existed.
"You'd tell me if something was wrong, right?" She trepidly asks, her fingers overlapping his, the three of them piled atop each other.
Her forehead leans forward, resting against his own, their noses tickling against each other.
The silence emanating from her, giving her the answer she didn't want to hear.
"I won't let anything happen to you two," he assures her, sealing his promise with a kiss that tastes like a fighting chance, laced with the faith that he wouldn't ever really leave her.