11. By the Skin (and the Teeth)
My skin is like a map, of where my heart has been
And I can't hide the marks, but it's not a negative thing*
How long had it been since he'd felt rested? Months? Years? He certainly hadn't slept well in Fox River, between Sucre keeping watch while he prowled the prison bowels, and Haywire violating his dreams by shredding his shirt to see the "pathway to hell" on his back. Then they'd been on the run—an endless run hounded by endless pursuit.
Michael realized the irony of his capture being the only respite he'd found in a long six months. He was finally able to relax, and despite the throbbing pain in his bandaged hands, he'd never felt better. Linc and Sara are free.
Shifting in bed caused the chains to clink and clang, drawing the attention of the police officer posted in the corner of the room. The Miami officer looked up from his book of Sudoku puzzles and scowled. "Because of you, I only got a few of these left. Now I'll have to buy a whole new book, pendejo."
Michael's shrug jingled the chains around his arms. "Sorry, boss."
Earlier, Karina had found the book of puzzles left in the hospital room. She'd held up each page of the book for him since he couldn't write in the numbers himself. Though it'd taken him a few seconds to adjust to the one-dimensional view instead of perceiving the puzzle as a cube, Michael began calling numbers faster than Karina could write, and they'd whipped through pages of puzzles before the officer had returned and snatched away his book.
The officer grunted in response, then refocused on the puzzles. Bored once again, Michael looked around the room at various pieces of medical equipment, like the defibrillator parked against a side wall. He wondered if Sara had ever been forced to shock a Fox River inmate whose heart had stopped. Michael had felt like he'd needed the defibrillator himself, that night in the safe house in Chicago. That night they'd made love for the first time.
"I love you; that's all I know right now," he said. The side of her face cuddled into his shoulder.
When she gazed up at him, he dipped his head, and their lips met halfway. A spark of electricity flickered up his spine, and he deepened the kiss. He felt her soft hand smoothing across his jaw.
Their evening had been a tragicomic dance, alternating between heavy dread:
"How much time you looking at?" She rested her head on his shoulder.
His resigned pause. "They're saying fifteen years . . ."
And light banter:
He kept something hidden behind his back as he climbed onto the bed. Then, with a flair, he presented the origami rose. "You left this behind."
The timbre of her laugh filled his ears like his most favorite song.
"So that's what was this about: getting me my rose back." She grinned.
His fingers cradled her elevated knee, hidden under the sheets, "Yeah, I guess I'm done now. I can retire . . ."
Now the energy between them was neither light nor dark, but a multihued band of fire, with every color of the spectrum crackling between them in a brilliant fusion. Michael cherished Sara's compassionate, fierce, and loyal nature. She'd agreed to be his partner. She'd stood beside him, despite the danger of her mere association with him.
Worry tightened his throat as he gazed down at the soulful, sophisticated woman in his arms. What if I lose her again?
He remembered Veronica's scornful remark, "You two have the most dysfunctional relationship I've ever seen". Though she'd been referring to him and Linc, the description could easily fit his relationship with Sara. First he'd met her under false pretenses, then he'd betrayed her, and finally she'd lost everything because of him—her career, her father, her dignity. Yet here she was in his arms. Here she was, wanting him as much as he wanted her.
"So, um, I guess this is our first date? It's not Baja." He pointed to the cartons of Chinese takeout. "And it's not filet mignon. But at least it's safe."
"You probably take all your first dates to safe houses," she teased.
Her joke made his anxiety vanish, and his lips curled up into a grin. "It does have a certain, uh, exciting ambience, doesn't it?"
"I don't think it's the house that's exciting." Could she feel his heartbeat accelerate beneath her cheek? Lifting to kiss him again, she murmured against his lips, "It's being with you. That's what's exciting."
He kept one hand cradling her neck as he scooted down and swiveled his shoulder to align his chest with hers.
Taking his cue, she rolled to her back. She reached for him and guided him on top of her.
He hovered over her, his weight on his elbows, his legs tangled with hers. When he kissed her soft lips, he was lost. She welcomed his tongue with a playful flick of her own, which sent a jolt to his groin. Their kisses lasted for several minutes but still he couldn't get enough of her.
She reached to unbutton his jeans, and his breath hitched when she brushed against him. He twirled strands of her silky hair around his fingers like he was molding copper coils that filled the mattress below them.
Feeling his jeans already scrunched around his thighs—the doctor was good with her hands—he drifted down to unzip her pants, all the while keeping focus on their infinite kisses. When she shoved his long-sleeve T-shirt up his ribcage, he hesitated. A strange shyness about revealing his inked skin overtook him.
She seemed surprised by his vacillation. "It's nothing I haven't seen before, Mr. Scofield. Take it off."
Her joke lightened the mood, and he yanked the shirt over his head.
He followed her gaze down to a sea of dark-blue ink: arches, buttresses, devil, angel. The battle between good and evil played out on his skin. As she traced a Gothic portico with her finger, he wondered what she was thinking. Her eyes seemed weighed down by sadness.
He smoothed his hands up her slender hips and wrinkled her white shirt like an accordion. When her shirt got stuck, he reached underneath her to free it, and she froze. "No." Her voice was a whimper.
He backed off her in an instant as he tried to understand the terror in her eyes.
"I-I'll do it," she said. She kept her back close to the mattress as she pulled off her shirt.
Her whimper echoed in his mind, and he continued to hold back until she guided his hand to her bra-strap. "Please." Soon he'd removed her bra, and he couldn't stop staring at her exquisite breasts.
They were round and smooth, and pebbled from his touch. As he fondled her, her eyes closed and her jaw went slack, spurring him to engulf her nipples in his mouth.
He heard her take in a shaky breath as he sucked and licked her sensitive skin. Her hands found his back, and her long strokes down his spine stoked a fire inside of him. When her fingertips skated over his left shoulder blade, she said, "The burn feels pretty much healed."
"Yeah, the doctor who fixed it up must've known what she was doing."
She smirked. "So did Geary really do that to you?"
He bristled. "No. I . . . I was in the walls, wearing a guard's jacket."
She looked up at him with questions in her eyes.
"Don't ask." He sighed when she continued staring at him. "A bull snuck up right in front of me and took a swig of booze, and I had to back up so that he wouldn't see me."
Her mouth tightened. "And what did you back into?"
"Hot water pipe." He hoped she wasn't too angry with him.
Sara winced. She drew him closer, clutching him to her. She whispered in his ear, "The tattoo . . . the burn . . . they mark your love for your brother. That kind of devotion—it made me fall in love with you."
He reveled in the feel of her lithe body pressed up against him. "Linc led me to you." He swallowed. "For that I'm grateful."
Michael lifted his head from her shoulder and gazed at her. Her intelligent brown eyes shined, their beauty stealing his breath.
They ripped off their remaining clothes, something he'd longed to do since that first infirmary kiss. Back then he'd feared someone walking in on them. Now only he could see the richness of her auburn hair spilling over porcelain skin. Only she could notice the sinew of hip muscle once he shimmied out of his boxer shorts.
They'd waded through six months of stolen, bittersweet kisses to get to this moment. The bitterness had left, but the sweetness remained, mingling with the building heat of their colliding bodies. "Michael," she breathed, her voice like a match struck against his skin. He could feel she was ready for him, and he pulsed into her. God, she felt good. She panted as they rocked together, and blood rushed in his ears. His need for her climbed with each thrust, soaring higher, his passion a crescendo, a climax.
He was so close. So close to her. So close to losing control, but this time he didn't care. When she inhaled a staccato breath, he shuddered as he released his seed into her. He held her to him, lost in heat and touch and scent and sensation. He could almost see through her ribcage to her heart, watching it decelerate from its frenzy a moment ago. Though he hadn't known it then, their love for each other had coalesced and woven together to form a new life.
After shrugging his shirt back on, he came up behind her. When he touched her shirt, she nearly jumped out of her chair. Her breath came in panicked gasps, and he cupped her shoulders to reassure her. After a moment, she reached up to entwine her hands with his. He said, "Sorry, didn't mean to startle you."
Her breath seemed labored. She turned to his hand to kiss it. "Sorry."
"Do you, uh, want to talk about it?"
She sniffed and bowed her head, then hunched over and lifted her shirt—the shirt she'd seemed so reluctant to let him take off before. When he saw her naked back, his eyes got huge. Red, jagged lines criss-crossed her skin. The indelible lashes of raised skin, obviously the marks left by a whip, made his mouth drop open in horror. He feathered his fingers over the welts, traced her branded skin much like she'd outlined his tattoo minutes before.
He replaced her shirt over her back to hide the wounds. He'd been the one to draw her into the company labyrinth. He'd done this to her. He'd never hated himself more.
Michael gasped for air, blinking several times as his eyes darted around the empty hospital room. His fingers tingled with warmth like was still touching her skin, and he choked back tears when he realized she wasn't there with him. He wanted to forget the image of her lashed skin, but he needed the memory as a reminder never to hurt her again. He might as well have been holding the whip himself.
Looking down at his bare forearms, he realized the tattoo had marked his skin as a sign of his love for Lincoln, just like the scars excoriating her skin marked her love for him.
He wished he could make up for all the pain he'd caused. He wished he was more deserving of her love. But most of all, he wished he was with her.
I bruise easily, so be gentle when you handle me
There's a mark you leave, like a love heart, carved on a tree
Anyone who, can touch you, can hurt you, or heal you
Anyone who, can reach you, can love you, or leave you*
* I Bruise Easily, Natasha Bedingfield